


Into The Arena

by Adwen



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Character Death, There Was Only One Bedroll, falling in love in a death game, im not even sure it warrants the graphic violence tag im just being precautious, no beta we die like everyone in canon, the inherent eroticism of medicine application, the inherent eroticism of placing your life in someones hands, the usual tropes such as, this is just 50k of otp bonding with occasional murder interludes, unrealistic depictions of injuries/weather/survival/cooking and also murder, what can i say folks this is very self indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29566029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adwen/pseuds/Adwen
Summary: Better to walk into the arena with your head held high than to be dragged there.Such was the saying in the Districts of Beleriand. But when Fingon finds himself in the Arena against all odds, he realizes it takes more than valor to survive when everyone is out for your death. At least his unexpected alliances mean he isn't facing it all alone. With enough luck, he may even survive.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 38
Kudos: 41





	1. The Reaping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "It was, he thought, the difference between being dragged into the arena to face a battle to the death and walking into the arena with your head held high" from Deathly Hallows by J.K. Rowling (yikes). 
> 
> I tried to fill in enough about hunger games setting that familiarity isn't needed, but let me know if anything is confusing. Basically after winning an unspecified war, angband divides beleriand into 12 districts. The hunger games are a gladiator style death match that the capitol/angband forces the districts to send one boy and one girl to each year to remind them of the loss. the champions are the only survivors of the match and bring a lot of money into their district.
> 
> you may wonder if this is a human au. the truth is i have no idea because i could never decide :D but i guess its implied

Illuminated only by volcanic glow and night-lights, the Capitol glimmered like too-sharp jewels and teeth waiting to strike.

Literally, in some cases.

It would be a misonimor to say that Fingon was scared of the Capitol. He’d grown up watching them on flat-screens every year, in that handful of days before the Hunger Games properly started, and the only thing anyone saw was senseless death made sport. 

So, scared, not quite. Unnerved, perhaps, when the mass of faces greeting him shrieked in delight, and their teeth glittered in sharp points. His skin prickled. He looked beyond the awaiting shark-crowds into the distance, where building lights gave the day-fog bright yellow eyes.

After a moment, Fingon reconsidered, and decided to watch the crowd after all.

“There’s so many,” said Meril from the other window. Fingon didn’t know her well. She was more Finrod’s friend than his, being of age with him and Turgon, and not running in the same circles as him besides.

He didn’t think their imminent joining of a slaughter fest was a good time to get to know her, though he’s been cordial and so had she. It was common for tributes from the same district to team up, on a basis of shared familiarity.

It just made things really uncomfortable if one had to kill the other, in the end.

Fingon took courage from Throndor and Uinen, the steady presence of his mentors behind him. As the train came to a stop, Fingon smiled as charmingly as he could, that politician’s smile that disguised the strain around his eyes.

The crowd screamed. 

Meril jumped and backed away, retreating to the table and snatching one of Throndor’s drinks. 

“ _Hey_ ,” said their gruff mentor. When Meril ignored him to chug the drink in one go, he grabbed the bottle and held it away from her. With it, he gestured at Fingon and said, “When your courage returns, be like him and work the crowd. It increases the chances you won’t die.”

Meril finished drinking and slumped into her seat. “I don’t think that will help at all.”

That put a damper on the mood, didn’t it? 

As the train finally slowed to a dreadful stop, smooth like the toll of a death bell, Fingon smiled wider and waved.

-

_Earlier that day..._  
  
  


Reaping day was always a sombre affair.

It was as true of the poorest of fisherfolk in District 4 as it was for the family of Fingolfin, the mayor, who had comparatively few griefs or troubles. 

Well, that wasn’t entirely accurate. Fingon had to be fair, and the reaping certainly wasn’t. Everyone knew that the poor folk suffered disproportionately when it came to how many slips of paper they had entered for the games in exchange for supplies. The chances that their names would be called were much higher than his.

Fingon finished braiding his hair with a gold wire to keep the strands in place, and smoothed down his formal robes. The boy in the mirror looked too somber to be him, so Fingon forced a smile. It almost looked natural too.

It didn’t keep his stomach from roiling unpleasantly, but at least those dogs of Angband wouldn’t realize that even after half a decade of reapings, he still felt the urge to shit his pants if he thought too long about what might happen.

But Fingon was privileged, the mayor’s eldest son. He only had the six requisite tickets for his name. The chances of him actually being picked were… slim. 

“Just one more game,” he told himself. “Then I’ll be free.”

He’d nearly forced himself away from delaying at the vanity when his door squeaked open. Argon peered into his room. His hair was still a mess of curls but someone had finally pressed him into his formal reaping day outfit.

Normally Fingon threatened to dunk his siblings in the ocean if they entered without knocking, but today he’d make an exception. He patted the side of his chair in invitation. 

“I don’t want to go,” whispered Argon as Fingon pulled his hair back into a simple half braid. “What if I get picked?”

Fingon kissed the top of his head and smoothed down a few rebellious curls. “You’ll be fine. There’s just the one paper. This day will be over before you know it, and we’ll have a celebratory feast at the end, just like we usually do. I heard mom and dad were planning on ordering your favorites,” he added conspiratorially. 

For once, the promise of food didn’t distract Argon, and he hunched into himself. Fingon could remember his first reaping like it was just yesterday; the terror of being nearly chosen -- always a possibility -- had sent him into hysterics.

Even though the hysterical wailing had disappeared in the following years, his terror only grew as his siblings came of age to be entered. So far, they’d all been lucky. 

Fingon prayed to all the gods he knew that they continued to be so.

“Listen,” he sighed. “I can’t promise you nothing will go wrong. But as long as I’m here, I’ll look after you, okay?” He fished into his drawers for the small circlet he only wore on reaping days. Despite the macabrety of the situation, no one wanted to look _bad_ as they were sent to their deaths on live TV. It was the principle of the matter to dress up.

The circlet was a tad too small for him now, and slightly too big for Argon. He pinned it in place and grinned in exaggerated satisfaction. “My, don’t you look handsome.”

Argon giggled despite himself. “Isn’t it yours?”

Fingon winked. “It’s nearly my final year, so I say it’s yours now. This kept me safe all this time, but now I _bequeath_ it to you, my good handsome sir.” Argon giggled again. Fingon poked the circlet. “With this, may the odds be _ever_ in your favor,” he said in his best exaggerated Capitol accent. The result sounded something like: may the oddths be everth in thyour favorthhhhh.

Argon clasped his hands over his mouth as his shoulders shook. Fingon grinned with the satisfaction of a job well done.

“Dearest elder brother, the reaping hasn’t even started, so don’t go all Capitol on us yet.” Aredhel leaned on the doorway with a smirk. She was wearing a dress of pure white with silver accents. On any other day, their parents would already have heightened blood pressure knowing the mess that would return by day’s end.

Today, the dress was correspondingly more formal than her usual frocks, and it would remain clean until nightfall. 

Turgon appeared behind her and frowned in disapproval at all of them. “At least you’re ready,” he said sourly. “Maybe next year you’ll be done early for once.”

It wasn’t clear if this was directed at Fingon, who famously spent too much time practicing his best smile in the mirror before going to any stressful outing. It might as well be a dig at Aredhel, who only cared about her appearance when she had something to hide. It could even be Argon, who was never agreeable on reaping day.

Perhaps it was all of the above. Fingon missed the years when Turgon was young, chubby with baby-fat, and his scowl was adorable instead of exasperating. 

He winked and smiled charmingly at his brother, because he knew it pissed him off. A few months ago Turgon had reached Fingon’s height, and he was still growing. Fingon wasn’t planning on forgiving that slight any time soon. “Relax,” he said with affected laziness, “I’d hate for your features to stay in that scowl forever. What will my admirers say if they see me with you? You’d scare them all off.” 

Turgon predictably scowled further and crossed his arms over his chest. “Like you even have admirers.”

“Lies,” said Fingon cheerfully, grabbing Argon’s hand and leading them down the stairs. “Everyone loves me.”

“Except for Uncle Arafinwe’s cat,” said Aredhel, sing-song. “And that one seal that came last winter. And--”

Fingon tuned her out with annoyed fondness. It was an old argument between them all, and he was happy to see the tense lines of their shoulders relax a bit as they went down. Argon was even swinging their arms back and forth.

At the front door their parents waited, as perfectly coiffed as they were each reaping. Strain pinched at their eyes, which took in their children with a desperation that came from maybe never seeing them again.

Their mother smiled, wan, and kissed all their cheeks and fixed minute details in their outfits as she went. Their father used the chance to discreetly wipe at his eyes and composed himself. He looked more tired this year than in any other Fingon had seen him.

It was the first year all four of them were up for reaping.

An ominous uncertainty flashed through Fingon. He breathed deeply just like his father taught him. They would be fine.

They had to be.

  
  


\--

  
  
  


The city plaza was filled to the brim. If the population of District 4 had been any higher, they would be crammed together like mutinous sardines.

After signing in, Turgon was pulled away by Finrod, who smiled and stayed long enough to greet them before the two were swept away to the rest of the sixteen year old boys. The swift departure didn’t bother Fingon or his siblings. There would be time to talk later, when the whole family gathered for the annual “thank _fuck_ none of our children are going to die on live tv” feast.

Aredhel, vibrating with ill-concealed nervousness, migrated towards her own age crowd. Fingon left Argon with the nervous group of twelve year olds with a final smile and shoulder squeeze, then marched towards the front.

It felt vaguely like walking to his own hanging.

The oldest age group was the nearest to the stage. Next year Fingon would be part of it, and he didn’t particularly like the distinction. Still, it was a relief that would be the closest he’d get to the stage. After next year’s reaping, Fingon would age out of the hunger games.

On the stage, Fingolfin settled into his chair and made small talk with the Capitol representatives and former Champions of District 4. Fingon’s mother was sitting with the rest of the city council towards the side, her head bent close to Earwen’s and lips moving rapidly. Fingon couldn’t make out the words, but he could see Earwen place a comforting hand on Anaire’s. 

He didn’t have to guess why his mother would be nervous. Galadriel, bless her precocious little soul, was three years too young to be eligible for the games. Argon wasn’t. 

He looked away and back to the stage, where the opening anthem blared through the speakers. Everyone on stage was grim, except for Ossë, who grinned toothily at them. “Back again, aren’t we?” The plaza was deathly silent. “I’m sure we’re all very eager to know who the tributes will be for this year's annual hunger games. Certainly I am.” 

His laugh echoed ominously in the stubborn, terrified silence. Fingon didn’t know the escort of District 4 very well, but he didn’t like him one whit. This macabre delight in violence was one of the reasons why.

When the laugher faded, Ossë sauntered over towards the glass sphere holding female names. “Ladies first,” Ossë purred into the microphone. Fingon tensed as Aredhel briefly appeared on the panning screens. She was still, staring straight ahead without looking at anything. 

Ossë ruffled through the papers for what felt like an eternity, then snatched on up. “Meril Leithrien.”

Fingon let out a tense breath. No one he cared about. Thank the gods.

He couldn’t even feel guilty as the girl was marched on stage, shaking and with eyes so wide the whites showed from a distance. Ossë merely seemed amused as he perfunctory introduced her, then he sauntered over to the male side. 

The papers crackled into the microphone. Fingon crossed his fingers and prayed it wasn’t him. 

Ossë looked at the name, blinked, and smiled. Fingon already knew he would dread what he would hear when Ossë said, “Argon Nolofinwion.”

White noise filled Fingon’s ears. He didn’t dare breathe as Fingolfin stood from shock, and stared over all their heads towards the back of the plaza. The screens had all focused on a boy with a circlet in his hair. Blood had drained from his face as he stared at his own image on the screens. Fingon could recognize his shocked incomprehension from a distance like it was his own emotion.

Argon looked so small. 

The other twelve year old boys backed away from him slowly, as though he were contagious. The crowd murmured in disapproval, as they did whenever a twelve year old was chosen. Argon glanced around to find himself alone and swallowed. His small hands curled into fists by his side.

“Will Argon Nolofinwion _please_ step on stage,” Ossë said, sounding bored. Fingon wanted to strangle him. 

A Peacekeeper nudged Argon into walking and marched him towards the stage. 

“Argon!” yelled Turgon. Finrod was restraining him, and already had a bloody nose for his trouble. Aredhel, when Fingon found her, was trying and failing to break through the crowd. “Let him go!”

Fingon didn’t realize he had shoved everyone out of his way until Argon was at his row and Fingon was being restrained by Peacekeepers. They growled threats to behave that went ignored. 

“I volunteer!” Fingon yelled, and there was a moment of still silence, broken only by the distant ocean waves crashing on rock. “I volunteer as tribute!”

On stage, Fingolfin collapsed back into his chair and buried his face into his hands.

This time, the Peacekeepers let him shove through and run towards Argon. Fingon hugged him tightly and didn’t look up at the stage, or towards his mother, or towards his siblings. Argon shook in his arms.

“A volunteer!” Ossë exclaimed. “Been a while since we had one of those. Well, come up then.”

“No!” screamed Aredhel, finally breaking through the crowd and slamming into Fingon. “No, no, you can’t, _you can’t!_ ”

“Aredhel,” Fingon said helplessly. His siblings clutched at him so tight he could barely breathe, let alone move. His eyes stung, but if he wept now, all of Beleriand would see. 

Turgon shook off Finrod and was suddenly there as well, hauling Aredhel and Argon off him and backing away. His throat bobbed, mouth opening and closing, but nothing came out. His face was red and splotchy from trying not to cry.

Peacekeepers moved between Fingon and his siblings, escorting him until he made the dreadful climb up the stage. Fingon forced himself to stare forward stonily, even as the stage lights burned into his eyes. The wide screens surrounding the plaza mirrored his own pale face back at him.

Ossë waved the microphone in front of him. “Well, what’s the name of our dear volunteer?” Fingon couldn’t even bring himself to glare at him.

“Fingon Nolofinwion.”

“ _Ohhh_ ,” drawled Ossë, as though this were a great surprise. “A brother, then. How lovely. Let’s have a round of applause for our volunteer!”

It was so silent a pin drop would be loud. Turgon was hugging his siblings desperately, Finrod leaning over them and staring at the stage in grief. Slowly, Finrod raised three fingers to his lips, kissed them, and raised them towards the sky in an old sign of respect. 

It was most common at funerals.

Around him, nearly everyone else did the same. Fingon swallowed, grief and appreciation clogging his throat. 

“How lovely,” murmured Ossë into the microphone. “Well then, here we have the tributes from District 4!”

Fingon tried very hard to not feel sick.

“Happy Hunger Games,” said Ossë in his falsely cheerfully voice and lisping Capitol accent. “And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if you read all of that exposition/start off I hope you enjoyed lol. This is very self indulgent, and also my first serious attempt at silm fic. I'm still getting used to these characters and even writing a novel-length story.
> 
> There were a lot of inspirations/influences writing this because I've been lurking in the silm fandom for a while. The entire concept of a silm hunger games au (that was, you know, not serious and was just an excuse to write self-indulgent russingon) came from this hobbit fic:
> 
> mercy and death on swift arrows fly by authoressjean! I really enjoyed that fic and wanted to write my own russingon version after seeing there was none. I'll try to keep track of any other influences.
> 
> Meril is (according to some posts I've seen on tumblr) an early version of Amaire. I mostly used her because I needed a female tribute (thanks, Tolkien, for writing a hundred dudes but like 10 women) but I've grown fond of her over the course of writing this fic!


	2. The Opening Ceremony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is just the latter half of chapter 1, which upon re-read i decided to cut in half to make it less of a thicc ch

Reaping time was staggered throughout all Beleriand. Theoretically, one could watch all the repaings back to back. Due to the time zone and the geographical location of District 4 on the far west of Beleriand, it was one of the last places where their fate was known.

By the time Fingon and Meril arrived in the Capitol, most everyone else was already there.

They weren’t allowed to meet them, immediately ushered towards the building where they would be prepared for the opening ceremony.

A team of brightly colored people--one of them actually dyed their skin a shade of purple--descended on Fingon and stripped him, washed him, and ripped most of the hairs from his skin in an agonizing procedure that left him feeling like a lobster about to be fried.

Humiliation burned at his cheeks as they clucked over him, discussing his appearance and musculature as though he were an animal. It’s only his mentor’s stern advice to let them do what they wanted that kept him in check; still, his nails dug little moons into his palm.

His braids they left alone, apparently on orders from the head stylist. Said person appeared soon afterwards, an old man with gray-blue hair and glittering blue eyes named Cirdan. He had been overseeing the District 4 tribute’s appearance for as long as Fingon could remember. 

Because of how long he had lasted, Cirdan was an easily recognizable figure to most everyone in District 4. Fingon was always glad by how… normal he looked. Some Capitol fashions were just too exaggerated and inhuman. It helped that Cirdan even shared significant resemblance to Olwe, the old mayor and Aunt Earwen’s father. Fingon, his siblings, and his cousins had all made significant jokes at the expense of other stylists, comparing how much better Cirdan looked to them. 

It was almost comforting to see that familiar figure, with that familiar resemblance, in such a horrifying situation as he was.

...Fingon just hoped this wasn't one of the years where he decided to stick the tributes inside a sexy fish costume.

It wasn’t, thankfully. Fingon was instead shoved into a mesh tunic made out of thin, criss-crossing green ropes threaded with pearls. The strands were woven so delicately Fingon worried they’d break upon moving. Shells and clusters of pearls and thread covered up his more… sensitive body parts. His gold-threaded braids were pinned up in a crown, and small glittering jewels were pinned around it. His head felt heavier and more bedazzled than it had ever been. 

“The theme this year is ‘caught from the sea’,” Cirdan explained while strapping glimmering bands of pearls along his arms and legs. 

“Isn’t it always?” Fingon smiled wryly. District 4 was one of the districts with the largest ocean-front. It’s main export was fishing, and the costumes for the opening ceremony were always fish-related in one way or another. 

Cirdan’s laugh was belly-deep, his body moving with his chuckles. “Indeed.”

When Cirdan was done fussing over him--or rather, when the time for dressing was up--Fingon was escorted to a wide room filled with a dozen chariots and around a hundred people rushing about. Low chatter like clacking clams filled the room, occasionally interrupted by shouting or horses stomping and neighing impatiently. 

It was the first time Fingon had seen any of his fellow tributes live, but he didn’t have much time for contemplation before being shoved in the direction of a chariot in the shape of a clam. How _surprising_. 

Meril was in a similar getup to him, only hers had two big clamshells stuck onto her breasts. She looked distinctly uncomfortable. Fingon looked away with a cough. It wasn’t that he was _unaware_ he was essentially naked under a thin weave that might break at any moment. He was just focusing on the more positive aspects of the situation.

Namely that at the very least it was a sexy net costume and not a sexy fish costume.

The anthem blared across the speakers, signaling the start of the opening ceremony. The chariots of the first district lurched forward out the opening doors, followed by the second district, then the third.

Then it was their district, and Fingon was blinded by the flashing lights and deafened by the screaming crowd. The sun extended its rosy fingers across the sky, darkening with each passing moment. 

_Make them love you,_ Throndor’s gravely voice echoed in his head. _And you might just win._

Fingon steadied one hand on the chariot. He forced a smile to his lips and waved. The crowd screamed its approval. 

He kept playing the crowd, buoyed by the festive ambiance and cheering, his smile slowly getting wider and more genuine. At one point, he caught a rose with his teeth. _That_ earned him a special focus on the cameras and the roar of the crowd. 

Then, they were pulling into the Capitol center. It was a large rotunda that housed the training center, the administrative buildings, and the mansions of the most important individuals. Angband, they called it. It was the old name of the place, back before winning the Great War allowed Angband to claw its way outwards and form the Capital proper, nested between the towering peaks of Thangorodrim.

Observing from a balcony was the president himself, Melkor. Fingon was familiar with his appearance from a lifetime of watching opening ceremonies with opening presidential speeches. He never seemed to age. It was downright eerie. Fingon didn’t even know how old he was. Melkor had always been _there_ , as long as Angband had ruled over Beleriand. Angrod liked to joke that he was so old he might as well have fought in the Great War himself.

It was just more proof that the Capitol had technology they didn’t, and had no regard for the natural state of things besides.

Up close, there was an intensity and heat to his focus that the screens never conveyed. Fingon felt naked for the first time, every inch of him dissected in seconds as though he were a bug pinned under an examination table. He could almost feel the scalpel ripping him open.

He held onto the chariot with a white-knuckled grip for the rest of the ceremony. When the horses trotted them into the training center, Fingon nearly fell off the chariot from how his legs wobbled.

Then he and Meril were being escorted up to an ostentatious suite. Fingon’s eyes were still blinded by camera flashes and glinting lights, and his brain could barely process what looked to be a gold-encrusted chandelier on top of all the happenings of the day.

District 4 was widely acknowledged to be one of the wealthier districts. In general, this mostly meant the population wouldn’t be half-starved even during bad seasons. There had even been talks of making a career tribute system like Districts 1 and 2 had, but Fingolfin had limited the efforts to combat classes under the guise of physical education.

It hadn’t made him very popular with some people. 

Fingon, with the hindsight of knowing that if there was a career tribute system in place Argon probably wouldn’t have been reaped, had mixed feelings about the entire thing. He resolved instead to not think about it at all. 

So he digressed. 

District 4 was a wealthy district. Fingon’s family was wealthier than most. They didn’t ever go hungry, and could afford jewelry and fancy outfits, and lived in a nice house.

It didn’t prepare him for the suffocating wealth of the Capitol. It didn’t prepare him for being examined and found wanting, then stripped and made up again to someone else’s standards, as though he were nothing but an animal for show. 

His head was pounding by the time the door of their suite closed behind them. Throndor collapsed into a chair by the table and reached for the bottles of liquor already placed there. Uinen entered with more grace, but similarly went straight for the liquor bar with a grateful sigh.

Ossë sat on the edge of another chair and rubbed at his suit with a nail. “Careful not to drink yourself into an early grave.” He didn’t seem interested in whether or not his advice was followed. 

Throndor flipped him off. The gruff old man then offered both Fingon and Meril a drink, along with a perfunctory, “Good job out there.” Fingon drained the entire glass in one go.

On the screens, the opening ceremony was being recapped. 

Fingon had watched all the reapings on the train ride, so he had some idea of who his competitors were. This time there was added commentary analyzing all of the tributes together, having been presented to the Capitol like dishes on a banquet.

Most of the focus was on the career tributes from districts 1 and 2. They were usually the Champions, and had many eyes on them because of it. Everyone would be eager to see what they would do.

Fingon wasn’t sure whether to be gratified or unsettled that a decent amount of coverage was granted to him. At least he looked good in his stupid sexy net outfit. 

“We can’t dismiss Fingon too early,” mused Tevildo, the host of the Hunger Games. His cat-like whisker mutations twitched. “His heart is in the right place, and it’s hard to ignore someone with such strong will.”

“He seems rather popular already,” agreed Thu, a frequent commentator. Fingon couldn’t remember what his actual job was, but thought it had something to do with the werewolves that were occasionally released into the Arena to wreak havoc amongst the tributes. The screen behind them changed to show groups Capitol citizens. They were sitting in the front stands of the opening ceremony. Fingon hadn’t noticed them even though they cheered as his chariot passed. They all had gold braided into their haid.

A slimy feeling slithered through Fingon. He had the oddest feeling of being violated.

“Smart of you to wear that,” said Ossë. “Makes you easily marketable.”

“I’m not a commodity,” Fingon gritted out. Even his voice sounded wrung out by the day’s events. 

Ossë’s blue eyebrows raised in a mocking expression. “Until you win, you are. And even then…” he trailed off with a pointed glance at Uinen and Throndor. He shrugged expressively, not bothering to finish that train of thought. “I’m sure Uinen already gave you the run through, but your best bet for survival is to make yourself lovable. Make a good impression, have people care about you; they send money for sponsorship, your lovely mentor--and this old barnacle--keep you alive. Maybe you can even win.” He raised his fingers for each point, then wiggled all five fingers. “Easy.”

“If only things were so simple.” Uinen was one of the more somber Champions of District 4. She always seemed indulgently amused in Ossë’s irritating antics. This proved she was a saint. Fingon felt like strangling their District escort even when he wasn’t being purposely incendiary. 

The screens were back on District 1. They focused on a tall, beautiful red haired boy that stuck out in Fingon’s mind because he was… well… very visually striking.

He was also a volunteer. Being from the district he was, that meant a Career. 

“Now that’s someone I didn’t expect,” muttered Throndor into his wine bottle. His beady black eyes were trained on the screen. 

“Why not?” asked Meril, tottering unsteadily from side to side. She was four wine cups into the evening. Fingon didn’t know what, if anything, he could do for her. She seemed resigned to her death from the moment she stepped on stage. Fingon didn’t think he could handle encouraging her to fight if it just meant he’d end up trying to slit her throat later on.

He refocused on the clip of Maedhros Feanorion, male tribute of District 1, introducing himself after volunteering. Unlike the female volunteer, who had worked the camera since she sauntered on stage, Maedhros was as enthusiastic as a stone.

If it wasn’t for the fists clenched at his side, he would have looked bored.

“His father Feanor is one of the Capitol’s foremost creators,” Uinen explained to Meril. Her voice was remarkably stable for someone who had been steadily emptying an entire wine bottle on her own. “Rumors are that he is wealthy enough to even buy Capitol citizenship. However, he never did. Frankly I think it wouldn’t happen even if he tried.. I met him once or twice and he’s… a character.”

“Polite way to say an asshole,” snorted Ossë.

Throndor nodded with a grimace. “Being as rich as he is and from District 1, there’s no reason for his children to ever be reaped.” He frowned down at his wine. “I can’t see why they’d be in the career system.”

“Isn’t being a tribute an honor in District 1?” suggested Meril, her words starting to slur. “Maybe he did it for the whole ‘Eternal Honor and Glory’’ shtick.” 

Fingon didn’t think that was the case, and his eyebrows furrowed in thought. This Maedhros didn’t seem like someone eager to go off and murder a bunch of other teenagers on live TV. It was a surprising change from the usual career attitude. 

Fingon hadn’t decided if it was a good change or a bad change.

On screen Tevildo grinned as the District 1 chariot pulled into view of the cameras. “Now here’s a familiar sight for our Capitol citizens. The eldest son of Feanor the inventor and Nerdanel the sculptress. I certainly don’t need to introduce them! He cuts quite a striking figure, doesn’t he?” 

District 1’s main export was luxury goods. Maedhros was dressed in glittering white robes. Threads of jewels all but dripped down them like a cascade of precious stones. His hair shone with so many gemstones it looked made of them. When he smiled it looked as crafted as any of the jewels he wore; small and beautiful, but cold, like the distant stars. 

“Feanorion isn’t any stranger to the Capitol,” Thu commented, “and I think I speak for all of us when I say we’re eagerly looking forward to how he will do in these games.”

  
  


\--

  
  


The following morning, Throndor and Uinen took him aside before breakfast. “If we're going to coach you properly, we need to know your strengths and weaknesses. Then we will form a plan for training and the games.”

This, more than the strange shower with thousands of buttons, woke Fingon up from the haze of sleep. He frowned thoughtfully. “I’m good with a bow. I always get the highest marks in--” he paused, seeking cameras and microphones and finding none. But that didn’t mean there weren't any. “Physical education class.”

Throndor grunted encouragingly. His black eyes were nearly hidden entirely buried beneath large, bushy brows, and his entire face had something predatory in it. Fingon wasn’t alive when he won his games nearly thirty years ago, but he knew Throndor won by clawing off the face of his opponent using knuckle-knives. 

Fingon was glad he was on his side and not an enemy mentor. 

Uinen, by contrast, was a stout-built fisherman’s daughter. There was a gentleness to her demeanor that spoke of purposeful cultivation. She had won a decade or so ago by hiding her strength until the right moment. It helped that her Arena had mostly been an ocean. She used her craft to build trap nets and drown her competitors. 

Fingon was also glad _she_ was on his side and not an enemy mentor. 

“I’m also physically strong,” Fingon continued. “I do well in the wrestling competitions, and I’m a good swimmer.” Not as good as any of his Arafinwean cousins, but _they_ practically grew up in the ocean. He remembered how they outstripped him in swimming competitions with graceful ease, and their sharp eyes for spearing prey in shallow pools. “I’m decent with a spear, but don’t have a lot of training with it.”

Arming the districts was, of course, a punishable offense. District 1 and 2 got by with their Career systems because they were the Capitol’s lapdogs. District 4 was of a more rebellious breed and had to tread more carefully.

“Good,” Throndor rumbled. “We can work with that.” Fingon had not noticed how tense he was until he relaxed. “I’ll see what I can do about getting you a bow in the Arena. For now, don’t touch that in training. Leave it for impressing the judges. If you must touch a weapon, improve your skills with the spear. Better yet: learn something completely different. I see you didn’t mention survival skills beyond swimming.”

Fingon winced. “If it’s a coastal location, I’ll be fine.”

“And if not?”

“Then you’ll keep me alive, won’t you?” He grinned winningly and tossed his head just so. The light caught his eyes and teeth and reflected off the golden ribbons he’d rebraided this morning. 

Throndor barked a laugh. “Keep that attitude,” his mentor told him. “And you may just win over enough sponsors for us to do so.”

“You’ll find I’m very lovable,” Fingon promised. Throndor slapped him on the back, then directed him to eat while they talked strategy with Meril. Fingon glanced at her as he walked back to the table, but she was looking down at her feet and didn’t spare him any mind. Their conversation was too hushed for him to hear. 

Okay then.

Fingon gorged himself on all the strange dishes until his stomach was close to bursting. Slaves took the platters away, and Fingon followed their movements with a distant sort of pity. Half sympathy, half relief it was not _him_ who had his tongue cut out and been forced into servitude. 

His stomach clenched with nausea. Maybe he should have restrained himself when eating.

Sometime later the rest of his district team returned. Meril was pale, her jaw clenched tightly. She had already eaten while Fingon had his own strategy conversation, and walked silently beside him as they were directed to the training center down below. 

As the elevator _whooshed_ down, Fingon thought of what he might say to break the silence. Good luck? You’ll be fine? Just do your best so you don't get slaughtered on the first day? Please stay away from me in the Arena so I don’t end up killing you?

“Um,” tried Fingon. Meril’s head jerked up. Their eyes met. Fingon couldn’t help but notice how very white her eyes were, when they were blown so wide and looked at him as though he were a particularly large and vicious shark. “So. Ready?” 

Her expression shuttered. “As anyone can be.” She looked at the descending floors flashing through the crystal walls. “You?”

“Same, I suppose.” 

Somehow, the silence was even more awkward now. When the elevator stilled and opened, they strode out without looking or speaking to each other. 

The tributes already gathered sized them up. Fingon’s eyes could not help but jump to the Careers. They were larger than anyone else--the benefits of a lifetime of good food and training. 

Fingon was on the fitter, healthier side of the tribute scale. It was an advantage that couldn’t be underestimated. Compared to the handful of tributes that looked half-starved, he had much better chances of surviving. 

Still, even he couldn’t compare to the Careers, who received specialized training on top of a top-tier diet. They tended to group into a pack, wearing arrogance like armor, arguing loudly and grinning menacingly at other tributes. _Trying to intimidate the competition,_ Fingon assumed with no little contempt. His father had raised him too well to resort to such petty scare tactics. They were only worthy of pure disdain.

...Except for one.

The tall red-haired tribute from District 1, Maedhros, stood apart from and didn’t join in on the rest of the pack’s posturing. He drifted from station to station, avoiding the combat areas (overtaken with grunting and trash-talk from the career pack) and not speaking to anyone. 

The career pack occasionally watched him with narrowed eyes. They never approached him. They didn’t seem friends at all. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Not that anyone came to the _Hunger Games_ to make friends or remain friends. Indeed, the worst games happened when two tributes knew each other beforehand. But it was odd, to say the least. Usually the Careers allied at the start of the game.

Some internal dispute, perhaps? A clashing of temperaments? Was Maedhros just that unlikable a person, that even the arrogant Careers didn’t work with him?

Fingon idly observed him between learning basic knife-skills. Maedhros was talking with the foraging expert in a hushed tone. He seemed perfectly polite, and the instructor didn’t seem intimidated or reluctant to speak despite Maedhros being an entire head taller. 

How... interesting. 

After another day of observing the pattern, Fingon brought it up to his mentors. Osse and Cirdan were there as well for this strategy session, and they all frowned.

“They never did show his parents at the reaping,” Uinen commented. This non-sequitur carved deeper lines into Cirdan and Throndor’s frowns, though it only confused Fingon.

“I’ve met the Feanorions a few times,” said Cirdan, rubbing at his goatee. “Maedhros was always a perfectly nice boy. I’m more shocked he volunteered at all than anything else. With a father like his…”

Osee and Thondor nodded. 

“Alright,” Fingon crossed his arms and leaned back into his chair. “Will someone tell me who this Feanor dude even is? You all keep bringing him up.”

Osse peered at him. “It won’t matter much to you if you die in the Arena.” At Fingon’s scowl, he shrugged. “It’s the truth. Well, don’t let it intimidate you, but Feanor is the son of Miriel Therinde.”

Fingon’s brows frowned. He could almost place the name to a face.

“Winner of the hunger games some 50 years back,” Cirdan helpfully filled in. He sighed, and seemed for the first time to show emotions behind his pleasant and calm mask. It was the old melancholy of a dead friend. “Lovely lady. An admirable seamstress. Even I would have fought someone to wear one of her creations.” 

“Didn’t she get fatally ill?” asked Fingon uncertainty. The hunger games were treated as a festival in the Capitol, and forced viewing elsewhere, so Champions were something like celebrities. Still, it had been so long since she lived that Fingon only had a hazy memory of silver hair. His parents hadn't even been _born_ when her games happened.

“Fatal illness, committed suicide, the specifics don’t matter.” Osse waved a breezy hand. “Either way she’s dead. Lucky for all of us, her kid is a genius, and he used her wealth to learn all sorts of strange skills. By the time he reached adulthood and had his own pool of spawn, even Capitol citizens fought to have a single one of his famous creations.”

Throndor grumbled an agreement. “Lord Melkor saw his genius and elevated him to a status few District-born see. His creations litter the Capitol. It would have been easy for him to somehow erase his District history but…” he grimaced. “Feanor has a difficult character.”

Fingon remembered Osse’s words. “He’s an asshole?”

Cirdan made a vague noise. “He’s very smart, and very focused. It can be… off-putting.”

“Okay,” Fingon said, carefully adding ‘his dad is an asshole’ to the mental notes he’d gathered on Maedhros. “So what does this have to do with his son volunteering?”

His team traded glances. “It’s unexpected.”

“Why?” Fingon demanded. “He volunteered, didn’t he?”

“Look.” Osse glanced around and his voice lowered to a near-silent hiss. “For people like Feanor’s children, the odds are so heavily in their favor their names are never up for reaping in the first place.”

Fingon’s mouth fell open. “What?! But that’s--against the rules.”

“The Capitol makes the rules,” rumbled Throndor. Uinen nodded beside him. Cirdan merely looked tired.

“That’s not fair,” insisted Fingon. He felt somehow betrayed by this knowledge. Before, he and all the other tributes--even the ones who volunteered--were united by the fact that if fate so wished, all their names were up to be plucked out of glass spheres. But now, Fingon was a victim, and it seemed Maedhros was there only for entertainment.

“Life isn’t fair.” Osse looked up and down Fingon with a viciousness that broke him out of his righteous indignation. “You think the poor of District 4 who have fifty tickets to their name each year think it’s fair? What about the people from poorer districts, who starve each winter? Or even them,” he pointed at the slaves standing in a corner, who jumped at the sudden attention. “All they did was anger the wrong person, and they had their tongue cut out and are forced to serve those who hurt them for the rest of their lives. Do you know what they say about you and your family, oh son of the Mayor? Do they think it’s fair you live in comfort as they struggle each day?”

Fingon could say nothing. 

Osse bared his teeth. “That’s what I thought.” He kicked back from the chair and strode off. 

Cirdan sighed and rubbed his temples. “Still as mercurial as always, I see.” 

Still feeling off-balance, Fingon spoke up, “That still doesn’t tell me what to do about Maedhros.”

When he first brought up the tribute from District 1, he had thought to, perhaps, exploit this schism between the Careers. He hadn’t expected to be upbraided for circumstances outside of his control. He resented the implication that he was unfairly judging Maedhros’ circumstances just because his own situation was enviable. It wasn’t like he was _unaware_ the world was unfair, but what could _Fingon_ do about it? Maybe if he’d gone on to become Mayor he’d do some good for the world, like his father tried to do. But for now… 

They were both volunteers, but totally different people. Fingon was here to save his brother’s life. Maedhros was here for… 

Honor? Glory?

His mind flashed back to Maedhros’ lonely figure, drifting along the edges of the training center. His back was always stiff. More than once his sharp eyes caught Fingon looking, and narrowed at him in turn.

What was he here for, really?

“For now just ignore him,” Uinen sighed and stretched, heading in the same direction Osse stomped off to. “At best he’ll be too sheltered to be a threat. More likely he might be the most dangerous person there.” 

  
  
  


\--

  
  
  


On the third and final day of training, Fingon resolved to push Maedhros entirely out of mind. He had to impress the judges today and couldn’t afford the distraction anyway.

Soon the gamemakers would come and privately observe their skills. They would then give him a score from 1-12, with 12 being the highest. It would indicate to potential sponsors his chances, as judged by the people who created and managed the Arena.

Luckily, Maedhros was the first one called into the private judging room. The air grew so tense a knife couldn’t cut it as the rest waited, and Fingon’s pulse quickened. 

When it was his turn, he entered a large room filled with targets, weapons, and supplies. Above him in an opened platform were the gamemakers, the ones who designed and ran the Arena during the games. They were picking food from a large banquet table and idly talking, but peered down at him curiously as he entered.

Fingon ran through the skills he had, eager to finally show off his skill with a bow. Thankfully the bows here weren’t too different from the training ones from District 4, and he felt he made a good showing by the time he was dismissed.

His palms sweated. Now, the score that would tell potential sponsors his survivability would be determined. It would determine how well everyone watching (and most importantly, everyone watching who had money) thought he would survive. How stacked the odds were in his favor, so to speak.

After this, only the Arena awaited him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tevildo and Thu are both early versions of Sauron from the early leithian, I think. Hope you guys enjoyed!


	3. Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i should add that this is very much not a slow burn story lmao.

Each time the games began, everyone held their breaths. That had been true for as long as Maedhros remembered. 

From twenty four embedded elevators in the ground the tributes rose and discovered the Arena for the first time. For everyone watching at home, the camera had panned over it in the hour before. They knew the layout, all the traps and secrets. But the tributes went in blind.

In that first moment when he was directed to a metal tube, opaque on all walls, that slowly rose with him in it that he truly realized there was no escape now. His heart pounded scatto in his chest.

His breath caught.

Back home, it remained that way until the countdown to the start of the games stopped, and the bloodbath for supplies began. Then it was all he could do to shield his younger brothers from the carnage, even as he became more inured to it each year. 

Here, he forced his lungs to keep breathing. In, out, in, out. As slow as he could manage it. 

Would he still find the bloodbath a merely boring and disgusting event to spectate, now that he was to be a participant? 

He’d find out if he survived.

In, out. In. Out.

The platform raised him above the ground. The sunlight blinded him after a day of nothing but artificial dimness and darkness. Green was the first thing Maedhros saw, in the grass and the trees. The wide blue sky stretched above before being blocked out by the canopy. It was a forest then. That meant potential food and heat sources.

_ In. _

The other tributes were taking in the surroundings as quickly as they could, the same as he.

25… 24… 23…

Maedhros marked out his neighbors--the girl from District 3, the boy from District 11--and the highest scorers on the evaluation from yesterday.

20… 19… 18..

Gothmog. District 2. Nearly a dozen tributes to the right.

Thuringwethil. District 1. Five places to the right.

_ Out. _

15...14...13…

The girl from District 2 must be behind the Cornucopia. Maehdros couldn’t find her at all.

_ In…  _

Gelmir from District 5 was five tributes to his left. 

And that boy from District 4, Fingon, was nearly straight ahead.

Their eyes met for a second across the expanse of the Arena.

12… 11… 10…

Maedhros sought out the best supplies he’d marked out during his look around. The cornucopia was of course full to bursting with supplies. Crates of weapons, food, shelter spilled out. Right in front there was a cache of weapons. Too dangerous.

_ Out… _

9… 8… 7…

To the side, a bow and arrow quiver. Fingon had spotted them as well. He had given no indication he knew to use them in training, but the sudden hunger he eyed them with betrayed his experience. Maedhros would keep an eye on him. 

6… 5.. 4…

Most interesting of all: a backpack filled with supplies. It was more towards the forest edge and closer to the boy from District 9 than to him. But Maedhros would fight him for it if he needed to.

_ In… Out…  _

3…

The starting pylons each had bombs surrounding them, only deactivated when the count ended. Merely the weight of a leaf would set them off.

2… 

Maedhros wondered what would happen if he stepped out and fell on them. Would he die instantly? Would it be painful?

_ 1! _

The sound of a horn blowing.

Maedhros sprang forward. He wove around other tributes making a mad dash towards or away from the Cornucopia. Fingon, he saw from the corner of his eyes, grabbed the bow and arrow and shot straight for tree cover. 

Behind him, the sounds of screaming, grunting, and flesh being rendered filled the air. His blood pounded in his ears as he sprinted for the backpack. He reached it at the same time as the boy from district 9, who snarled at him. Maedhros yanked the pack and looked behind, then twisted back. The boy didn’t let go and was pulled along.

The knife aiming for his head stabbed into the boy’s back. The light drained from his eyes in seconds, and he slumped like a puppet with its strings cut.

Thuringwethil leered at him and threw another knife. Maedhros blocked it with the backpack, scrambled back and up, and ran, disappearing into the forest. His shallow breaths were so loud it was a wonder no one else heard them. 

When his lungs finally threatened to give out, Maedhros slowed to a walk. He slumped forward, hands on his knees as he panted desperately for breath. Tears burned the edges of his eyes from the exertion.

One slaughter down. Who knows how many more left.

He forced himself to keep walking until night crept over the sky. Then, with the last rays of daylight as his guide, he took stock of his supplies.

A pair of night vision goggles. Of some use, if he found some good day-time hiding spot and chose to move at night. A large thermos, unfortunately empty. Rope, which could be useful enough in a variety of situations. More interesting was the wire. He set that aside to try one of the simple traps he learned in training. 

Nested in a pocket was a lighter--indispensable if the nights were frigid enough he’d be desperate enough to make a fire, still useful otherwise. The climate seemed temperate enough, but Maedhros would take no chances.

There were also some bandages, and a thermal bedroll. It took up most of the space in the pack, and was further indication he should trust the warm air not one bit. 

Overall, not the  _ best  _ haul he’d seen in the hunger games, but it was not so bad Maedhros regretted grabbing it. 

The dying eyes of that boy flashed in his mind. 

There was also that, then: the knife Thuringwethil had so kindly gifted him. He was sure she’d be delighted to hear she’d unwittingly aided him. If they ever had the misfortune of running into one another, he’d be sure to rub it in her face.

His throat felt parched from his earlier sprinting. Maedhros wasn’t used to it. Finding water was his top priority. With Mairon keeping an eye on him as he implied he would…

Well, he might still get help from sponsors, but Maedhros wouldn’t count on it.

As night proper descended upon the skies, Maedhros hauled himself up the first sturdy tree he found. It wasn’t particularly easy, and he worried the branches would snap under his weight.

Celegorm would have squirrelled up here much easier than he did. He can almost here the disparaging commentary he must be currently spouting. Criticizing Maedhros’ arm strength, his technique, even the tree he chose. Celegorm had a tendency to rant about how much better he would do than any of the tributes if he were in their place. 

Their parents had a private theory that it was a way to cope with the slaughter of the games. Regardless of where the comments started, Maedhros was very thankful he didn’t have a chance to prove it.

With the goggles over his eyes, the trunk to his back, and the bedroll tied to the trunk, he felt almost secure enough to sleep.

Instead, he looked at the constellations through the shadows of the canopy. At what could only be 8 pm Capitol time, the anthem suddenly broke the silence. On a corner of the sky, the faces of the fallen tributes were projected in holographic blue, one face after the other.

Normally a canon would fire each time a tribute died. In the first bloodbath it was too hard to keep track of the dying, so the belated canyons had burst through the silence earlier that day. Eight had died in the initial bloodbath. Maedhros just hadn’t known who until now.

None of the strongest competitors (by the game-maker’s ratings, at least) had fallen. Unfortunate, but not unexpected.

The face of that boy burned in his vision long into the night.

  
  
  


\--

  
  
  


Maedhros slept fitfully and woke to birdsong. It echoed through the treetops, distorting the world into a dreamlike state.

For a moment, he could almost be back at home, laying in an alcove reading a book. He could be in District 2, camping among the trees with his brothers. He could be anywhere at all, his father’s voice lecturing on his newest interest, his mother a few chuckles away whittling away at a prototype, his brothers lulled into quiet by the warm crackle of a hearth.

Then the bark dug into his back, and his neck cracked. His throat was even more parched than the night before.

He contemplated trying to down one of the birds for food, but was hesitant to throw his knife and lose it. He didn’t fancy scarfing down unseasoned pheasant with no beverage either.

It took one week to die without water. The effects of dehydration would set in before that. 

Maedhros climbed to the last safe branch of the tree. It trembled underneath his weight but held. It wasn’t high enough to break the canopy, but his field of vision was much improved. He could even just about make out the clearing where the cornucopia was located, half a day’s walk (and run) away.

Mountains with ragged, snowy peaks surrounded the Arena. It was not so much a forest as it was a huge crater interspersed with rocky outcroppings and wide expanses of trees. If Maedhros squinted, he could almost make out some rivers flowing from the mountains.

Bingo.

There was a chance that the rivers and mountains were beyond the energy field, or just a holographic projection (his family could never agree on the exact nature of the barrier). Still, it was his best chance. At least he could die of thirst while working towards a goal instead of moping around waiting to die.

He resumed his walk in the vague direction of the mountains where he saw the river. His stomach clenched unpleasantly, even in absence of hunger. The wire trap he set had been empty.

He saw a rabbit once, but it hid in the underbrush when it spotted him. At least that meant his trap failed due to chance or his own lack of skill, and not due to absence of prey. The birds were still too far up for him to dare lose his knife to. If he had a spear or a bow, perhaps he would risk it. But without that, hunting was limited to the handful of traps he could make.

He would wait to see what came onto his path. In the meanwhile, he’d concentrate on foraging. He’d already gathered a pocketful of berries since he started walking. Worse case scenario, he could peel tree bark for sustenance.

It wouldn't sustain him indefinitely, but it was better than no food or water at all.

Another day passed in a similar manner. On the second morning the canon burst through the darkness, signaling another death. Then another towards midday. Each time Maedhros held very still, and flattened himself under the bushes and tree-roots for cover. Each time, the bird-chatter returned after a startled moment of silence.

Maedhros kept walking.

On the second day when the sun was overhead, the ground sloped upwards in a gentle incline. Rocks burst from the ground in red-brown clusters. Some clay mix, perhaps?

He continued walking as the trees thinned and more rocks littered the path. Then, his vision was entirely filled by a great wall of that same red-brown stone. Maedhros craned his neck upwards. The rock wall rose so high, he doubted his chances of climbing it without any gear would be successful. 

Left or right? His mind flashed to the river he saw earlier that day. Right, perhaps. Some direction northeast-wards, if he had not strayed too far from his plotted path.

He followed the rock-wall until it suddenly fell away into an opening. It was a few meters across and sloped upwards in a steep curve. Maedhros paused suspiciously at the entrance.

On one hand, it was almost certain that there would be a hidden trick or danger to this path. Maedhros wasn’t sure what that could be, but his instincts rose in warning. Going in there would almost certainly mean braving death. 

On the other hand, it might be the only way up the mountain. There had been a year where having the high ground had been indispensable. The arena had been slowly flooded from bottom up. The only paths to the top were part of a deadly, maze-like cave system whose every shadow hid a new danger.

To tread or not to tread. That was the question. 

The possible reward of water won in the end. He cautiously stepped onto the passage. Every footstep echoed too-loud in his ears. No matter how many times he stopped to listen for any other human movement, the paranoia set his heart racing each time.

He’d almost made it to the end of this incline when something gave underneath his feet, falling into the earth like a pressure plate triggered. Maedhros threw himself forward as a spike burst out of the ground where his foot was. Then there was another, nearly spearing him from the side. 

He sprinted into the canyon as spikes stabbed out behind him. His heart pounded in his chest, so loud it was the only thing he could hear over his breathing. Each step threw him off balance as more of the plates were triggered, and more spikes missed skewering him by a hair-width.

Finally, as the ground smoothed into a dusty, rocky surface that sloped the spikes stopped chasing his feet. 

Maedhros dared to pause and catch his breath. He didn’t dare lean on any walls or even move a single step in any direction, and the backpack was a heavy burden on his aching lungs.

So. That had been the trick of this ratted place.

With a shudder of the earth, the raised spikes hid back underground.. Maedhros trusted the cracked earth about as much as he trusted Mairon to be nice. That was to say, not at all.

The urge to curse nearly broke through him. If he walked back, would he only just get skewered? It seemed like he had no choice but to move forward. 

With cautious steps he crept through the canyon. The walls were jagged and crumbling, and stretched so high only a thin river of blue betrayed the sky above. As the ground twisted into a decline, his steps echoed and dissipated into the air.

There was no other sound but the crumbling of pebbles underfoot, and the occasional muffled thumps of rocks falling and stone grinding somewhere else. 

Maedhros doubted he was alone here. It didn’t escape his notice that aside from some jutting rocks at each side, there was no hiding place. If the game-makers wanted a confrontation, this was an ideal location for a head-on battle. His fingers brushed the knife he had strapped to his leg.

The canyon twisted and turned with little rhyme or rhythm. Maedhros knew he was being led towards somewhere, but not what he would find. His pulse beat rapidly against his chest. 

After an hour of walking, it seemed as though he would escape this area without further trouble. That’s when the sound of rapid footsteps beating the earth reached his ears. The acoustics in this cursed place were such that Maedhros had no idea how many people there were, but they were close, and they were coming. In a second he had the knife gripped in his fist.

He chanced a look behind him, but on cue, a fall of rocks rolled down and blocked the path, sending up clouds of dust.

His teeth gritted. He slowly crept his way forward. The footsteps were getting louder. There must be an intersection of paths just ahead. 

The walls were even more jagged and unfriendly in this area. There weren’t any decent hiding places, either. 

He was contemplating going back and hiding in the dust cloud after all when loud breathing joined the jogging, and Maedhros abruptly realized that this place muffled sounds in such a manner that they sounded farther than they actually were.

A dark blur skidded down the path towards him. Their eyes met and both widened. The person had a bow in hand, arrow in the other already slotted into place. Instantly, the arrow rose and focused on Maedhros. 

Before he could fire, Maedhros ducked behind the insufficient rock cover, pressing himself to the wall. A mistake. As his weight fell upon the cliff wall, a net of woven rope burst from the mountainside. It tangled into his right side and hauled him upwards. Maedhros screamed. He had moved to evade it, but all it did was dig metal rings into his right arm. Something  _ popped  _ in his right shoulder. Agony blacked out his vision.

When he came to, he was hanging dozens of meters above the canyon floor. The pain in his right shoulder radiated outwards in tortuous waves. Even breathing hurt, and he forced air into his lungs with willpower alone.

A tense, almost incredulous silence fell upon the mountainside. Maedhros bit the side of his cheek so hard he tasted blood and forced his watery eyes to focus. 

He was not bound so high that he couldn’t recognize Fingon Nolofinwion from District 4. Cheerful, handsome and charming, the public loved him. Not someone he interacted much with. Even with his high score, Maedhros hadn’t particularly considered him to be a threat.

Now he was to be the last face he ever saw. 

Maedhros closed his eyes in what was not quite despair, but might have been resignation. They opened again when Fingon called up to him, “Hey-uh--you look to be in a bit of a bind!”

“Really,” grit outMaedhros after a moment when Fingon waited expectantly. His voice rasped like pieces of paper rubbing together. The bow was still ready to fire, but Fingon had lowered it. “I hadn’t noticed.”

He could hear the answering snort from upon the cliffside. “Are you just hanging around then?” 

Maedhros tried shifting so his weight wasn’t resting so much on his shoulder. His vision blacked out at once. Nausea threatened to hurl up what little food he had gathered. Fingon kept waiting, staring at him with a hand shielding his eyes from the sun. Maedhros couldn’t see his expression. Incredulity that Fingon was just  _ standing there _ , making idle conversation when Maedhros was hanging in agony kept him talking. “...It has a nice view.”

For obvious reasons he hadn’t actually paid attention to the view, and when he glanced around (and instantly regretted it, feeling the pull on his neck and shoulder), he found nothing but the same sheer cliffs with trees on both sides. There was a river in the distance, meandering down the mountain. 

At least he had been going in the right direction afterall. Unfortunately, it didn’t redeem his predicament. 

His shoulder ached like someone had taken a hammer to it and pounded it flat. To make matters worse, the knife had scored a bloody line into his thigh and was now stabbed awkwardly into the backpack. It was lucky it hadn’t stabbed into his own torso instead. Blood sluggishly matted the fabric of his pants.

Maedhros debated digging the knife out and trying to cut himself free. Between the amount of wriggling that would require, the maybe-broken shoulder, the thigh-wound, and the fall if he was successful, it didn’t seem like a great plan.

Not to mention Fingon was waiting for him down below. 

Fingon seemed like a nice person from a distance, but Maedhros doubted he was stupid enough to allow his enemy time to free himself and recuperate. Even if he was, beyond all reason… making small talk.

Maedhros sighed. “Fingon, right?” Fingon nodded, unnecessary since they both knew he was right. “You’re a good archer, aren’t you?” He didn’t wait for the confirmation nod this time, barreling on before the dry lump in his throat could make his voice shake, “If you’re going to shoot me, can you at least make it a quick death?” 

There was silence from down below. 

“I  _ could _ ,” Fingon said. Maedhros still couldn’t see what expression was in his face, and didn’t want to. He shut his eyes again, then forced them open once more when he thought of what his family would think--

_ Cowardice does not become you, Maitimo. It is better to walk into the arena with your head held high than to be dragged there screaming. _

Surely, at least, he could face death with both eyes open. He wouldn’t let them know how his heart rattled against the prison-bars of his chest, as though it could escape the arrow that would pierce it by pumping enough blood.

“I don’t really want you dead, is the thing,” Fingon continued, his voice loud enough to carry upwards. Maedhros twitched. “If I shoot down that trap, will  _ you  _ try and kill me?”

“Um...” said Maedhros, more than a little blindsided by how this conversation had turned without his input. His dry tongue smacked against the wetness of the sluggish blood flowing from his cheeks. “...No?”

Another tense silence fell upon the clearing. This one was more thoughtful than the last, but still rather incredulous, at least on Maedhros’ side. Silences, he found, were surprisingly expressive. Especially when one’s life depended on the outcome of the silence being broken.

“I’m just going to have to trust that, aren’t I,” he heard Fingon say. The wind carried it up, being too quiet for him to overhear otherwise. His breath caught with something other than despair when he saw Fingon lifting his bow again pointing it at him.

He shut his eyes tight. Could he even bear to look, if the arrow might still hit his heart? He couldn’t--let him hope, for once--

Maedhros screamed as the netting broke and fell, tangling in more sharp rocks on the cliffside and jerking his entire body to a painful, sudden stop. His shoulder snapped audibly when his right arm was caught in the ropes, and he tasted so much blood it dripped out of his lips.

“ _ Shit! _ ” Fingon’s curse was loud enough it did not need any wind to reach him. Through the tears, Maedhros felt the ridiculous urge to laugh.

A jumbled noise mix of scrapping rock mixing with muttered curses filled his ears. When his vision cleared of black spots, he saw that Fingon was actually climbing up to him. It was official: Fingon was a madman.

Maedhros moved experimentally. The netting slipped a few inches, but agony sunk its claws into his entire right side. He bit the side of his cheek again.

“Don’t move! I’m nearly there!” 

Maedhros focused on the rocks digging into his body and counted each one where they dug into his skin. A sharp one was digging into the base of his spine below the backpack, and he was just about to chance moving again when a sweaty face came into view. 

Maedhros wondered what he could say to his unexpected savior.  _ Hello  _ seemed too understated, and _ Thank you for not killing me  _ far too emotional.

Instead he remained silent, biting his bloody lips as Fingon used an arrowhead to saw at the rope. His brows were furrowed in concentration, sweating dripping down his cheeks with the effort, but the netting was only unraveling thread by thread. He would exhaust himself at this rate.

Maedhros shifted until his left hand wrapped around the hilt of the knife. The netting slipped as he jerked it out. Fingon hissed at him to be still again, but Maedhros was too busy forcing bile back down his throat to pay him any mind.

When his stomach settled, Maedhros gritted out, “Here,” holding the knife as far as he could. His hair stuck to his head unpleasantly from this small effort.

Fingon didn’t seem reassured by the existence of a knife in Maedhros’ hand. When he took it, Maedhros wasn’t reassured by the knife being in  _ Fingon’s  _ hand either.

Their eyes met again. After a moment, Fingon resumed sawing at the netting. The threads quickly unwove under the sharp metal blade. Then, all at once, the net snapped and Maedhros was plummeting back towards the ground. He slammed into it with a muffled yell and more taste of copper. His vision entirely faded into spots of dark and light.

When the canyon reformed in his vision, Fingon was pushing himself up beside him. He kept groaning and rubbing at his chest. The breaking net must have dislodged his grip on the cliff making him fall as well. 

The knife glinted where it lay a few handwidths away. 

Taking a deep breath and grinding his teeth together, Maedhros pushed the netting off of him and squirmed out of the rest. Fingon had just turned to him with a smile, saying, “Well, that went well,” when he spotted Maedhros reaching for the knife. His hands jerked towards the bow on his back. But they both knew it would be too late to shoot Maedhros if he attacked. 

Fingon’s smile froze on lips. Maedhros clutched at the knife, kept half an eye on him, then bit down on the hilt. He was careful to keep the sharp edge facing away from him. The wariness on Fingon’s face mingled with bewilderment.

Maedhros held up a finger in what he hoped as a universal symbol for  _ wait _ , then felt at his shoulder. Pain arched through him at the contact, but it only felt dislocated, not broken. Small mercies. He ran through what he could remember his tutors telling him about setting snapped shoulders as he braced against his backpack and the rocks.

With a  _ pop  _ and a muffled scream, the shoulder snapped back into place.

Fingon recoiled as though punched, turning green around the edges. “Stars,” he heaved. “ _ Urgh _ .” 

Maedhros unclenched his teeth and the knife fell limply onto his lap. He wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his trembling left hand. It took more effort still to force his dry mouth open and rasp, “Thanks.”

It still felt woefully understated.

Fingon stood unsteadily and composed himself. He still looked faintly ill. “Uh, what for?”

Maedhros pointed upwards. The edge of the netting was still tied to the metal mountainside hook. It glittered ominously in the sunlight.

“Oh, right,” said Fingon, as though he had forgotten it, and offered him a hand. After a moment of contemplation Maedhros took it, and was pulled to a wobbly stand. “Anytime.”

Maedhros chose not to comment on that statement. Some of his disbelief must have shown, because Fingon readjusted his bow and quiver with the fastidiousness of someone avoiding acknowledging the stupidity of their statements. 

Maedhros slid the knife into his thigh pocket again. He slung the backpack so it hung over his left shoulder. The weight pulled uncomfortably at his injured one, but it was bearable.

Now that the agony of his dislodged shoulder was temporarily fixed, Maedhros remembered the thigh wound. The bleeding had slowed. Maedhros could examine it later when he wasn’t trapped in a death canyon with the strangest enemy in the world.

The net he gave a spiteful kick to. Then, he reconsidered, and crouched to shove it into his pack.

Fingon kept an eye on him throughout the process. He was still tense as Maedhros slung on the now heavier pack with a grunt. “Would you like help with that?” he asked in the tones of someone who already knew the answer would be  _ no _ . “I promise to not run off with it.” He punctuated his statement with a charming smile. Did he expect it to work on Maedhros as it did on his Capital sycophants? 

Again, Maedhros regarded him with an ill-concealed mixture of contempt and disbelief. Fingon shrugged and looked away. His shoulders were a rigid line, his hands brushing against the bow and quiver every few seconds. “The offer is on the table.”

“Thank you,” Maedhros said politely. His mother had not raised him to be rude. He didn’t think she had meant for that to include thanking an enemy in the Hunger Games of all places but… 

He did owe Fingon his life now, didn’t he? His lips pursed. He strode away to disguise whatever expression must be on his face.

A second later, hesitant footsteps matched his stride. Fingon pulled up beside him far away enough that Maedhros couldn’t strike at him with his knife. “Is that it?” Fingon asked.

“What?”

Fingon gestured vaguely, slow enough Maedhros kept his muscles from tensing. “We just move on and don’t talk about it?”

“Was my thank you inadequate?” Admittedly, Maedhros didn’t have practice thanking someone for saving his life. He rummaged through his memories of prior Hunger Games for the few instances this happened. Was there some protocol he had missed?

“Noooo,” Fingon drew out the word. “It’s just, are we allies now? No attempts to kill one another, work together to survive, that sort of thing?”

“If you want to.” 

Fingon let out a frustrated noise and stopped walking. Maedhros paused and turned half-back. Fingon crossed his arms and was glaring at him reproachfully. “I want to know if you’re going to try and kill me!” 

Maedhros scowled at him. Did he want to sign a contract? “I said I wouldn’t, didn’t I? Are  _ you  _ going to try and kill me?” 

“Why would I do that?” Fingon flung his arms out in an exasperated move. “I would have just shot you back then if I--” he cut himself off. 

“Exactly,” said Maedhros. A headache pounded at his temples like a forge hammer. He resumed walking, not even mustering up the will to care his back was exposed again. It was less of a deliberate gesture this time and more that the canyon walls were suffocating him. Just being close to the thread of rope still hanging from above made him want to hurl. Let Fingon shoot him in the back for all he cared.

Fingon huffed as he caught up again. This time, Maedhros didn’t slow his stride to account for Fingon’s shorter legs. He marched towards the exit shining green in the distance, his jaw a rigid line. 

An ache that rivaled the pain in his shoulder clawed at his heart. Abruptly, Maedhros wanted nothing more than to hear his father’s reproachful voice like when he was a child and fought with his brothers. He wanted his mother to remind him a debt owed is a debt that should be repaid, and kindness was always his strongest weapon.

His eyes pricked. He blinked, rapidly, and sighed.

Just breathe. In and out. In, out.

“I’m sorry,” said Maedhros to Fingon, coming to an abrupt stop. The boy’s black braids flew around his shoulders as he turned to Maedhros with surprise. “I’m not being--” his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. “I  _ am  _ thankful for what you did. If you’d like to ally, I’d be happy to team up with someone who isn’t murderous.” He tried for a smile, but only half his lips cooperated. If it looked as awkward and strained as it felt, it would do more harm than good. He dropped it as a lost cause after a second.

Fingon regarded him silently. His blue eyes were keen and intelligent, and his narrow focus was like a laser. Maedhros had noted as much when he caught the other boy examining him during training.

When he smiled, it brightened his entire face. Fingon did that a lot: the smiling. He had an inherent charisma few possessed. It would make him a magnet for sponsors if he played his cards right.

All in all, not a bad competitor to team up with.

“Alright,” Fingon said, and stuck out a hand. It was his left one. Not his dominant, unless he’d been hiding that; it was to accommodate Maedhros' injured shoulder. Maedhros hesitated for a second before shaking it in a firm grasp. “Allies, then. Say, is the whole ‘non-murderous’ part why you didn’t team up with the Career pack?”

Maedhros tilted his head. “I suppose,” he demurred, resuming the walk. This time, Fingon walked beside him from the start. His palm was sweaty and warm from the handshake. 

The dusty canyon floor was replaced with hard ground and a few tufts of yellow grass. The walls slowly smoothed from ominous spikes and twisted, jutting spears into a smooth expanse. When Maedhros felt his steps cost more effort as he moved uphill, he knew escape was imminent. 

Fingon seemed to reach the same confusion and jogged forward with excitement. He paused at the top of the incline and threw his arms up. “Freedom!” he cheered, his voice a cautious whisper.

Maedhros grunted as he hiked up beside him. By now both his shoulders were aching, and he dropped the pack to the ground for a moment's reprieve.

The canyons had been leading them in a serpentine path up the mountains this whole time. Maedhros could nearly see the entire crater stretch out beyond a cliff edge, far enough he saw where the opposite mountain edge kissed the horizon. The jagged, twisting, and deadly canyon was smaller than what it felt like when trapped in it.

Just beyond the cavern’s opening a handful of trees made up a sparse forest. If he wanted to return to proper tree-cover, he’d have to go back down the mountain. From here he could just barely make out the clearing with the Cornucopia in it surrounded by the thickest forests. 

More intriguing, the river he had spotted earlier flowed in the distance, in a meandering path down the mountain and into the crater below. It was close enough Maedhros could hear water rushing downstream.

He and Fingon shared a speaking glance. “River?” Fingon offered. 

Maedhros nodded firmly. “River,” he agreed.

They hiked through the mountainside at a quick pace. With the wide expanse of sky above him and the sound of water ahead, Maedhros could almost focus on something beside his aching shoulder. He relaxed minutely. Fingon was even slightly bouncing as he walked. 

They reached the river in short order. Its clear, bubbling water was pure delight to his ears. He collapsed beside it and drank in desperate gulps. Fingon mirrored him to the side, splashing water onto his face and scrubbing as he drank. It seemed Maedhros was not the only one with hydration troubles.

When they had both gorged themselves on water, they sat by the river edge and let its cool water flow over them. Maedhros dug out the bandages and rolled up his pant leg.

There was a wild glint in Fingon’s eye. He was looking at the river with such fervor that Maedhros wouldn’t be surprised if Fingon flung himself into its watery clutches. “You know, I’ve never been so far from water before.” For the first time since Maedhros met him, his smile seemed entirely genuine. Pure relief condensed into a single expression. “I missed it.” 

As he washed his thigh wound--the sting made him hiss--he asked, “What’s the ocean like?” It was more to distract himself from the sting of the wound than to make small talk.

Even so, Fingon seemed to consider it seriously. He pointed at the river and said with amusement, “Like this, but bigger. And salty.”

Maedhros’ nose wrinkled as he contemplated salty water. He knew about it theoretically, and even now there was a part of him that wished to know it in practice. It was the same part that went on hiking around Districts 1 and 2 with his family, as far beyond Morgoth’s ever watchful eye as they could get away with. Wanderlust ran in his blood.

Deep breaths, Maedhros. In, out. In, out.

“Sounds weird,” he said. If his voice was heavy, Fingon either didn’t notice or didn't comment. Maedhros wrapped his wound tightly. 

“It’s beautiful.” There was a deep longing for home in Fingon’s voice. This, at least, Maedhros could understand. “When the sun rises and sets, and the ocean is calm, all the clouds are reflected. It looks like it's on fire, and you can’t tell where the water ends and the sky begins.”

Maedhros tried to picture it. It seemed like the kind of thing his family would pay off the District guards to see, skirting around rules and regulations with an ever-present disregard for danger. And it would be worth it, perhaps, if only to see a sight unknown.

“It sounds lovely,” Maedhros said honestly. “I wish I could see it.” 

Fingon blinked rapidly. His right hand was resting in the water, distorting the ripples of the flow. It clenched into a fist. “Yeah, me too.”

Maedhros gave him privacy. He took out the large thermos and filled it with water. 

“Oh, that’s useful.” Fingon had either masterfully hid or moved on from his melancholy faster than Maedhros expected. Now he regarded the backpack with interest. “What else is in there?”

The urge to conceal the backpack’s contents was strong indeed. He didn’t actually trust Fingon as far as he could through his knife. More, even, since Fingon had such keen accuracy with his bow.

He reminded himself that Fingon could have just killed him earlier. It took… a tremendous amount of courage or kindness to take that chance on him. Either that or he was stupid. Maedhros didn’t _think_ he was stupid, but Fingon’s actions were too baffling to comprehend with a rational mind. Perhaps he had been dropped on the head as a child.  


They hadn’t ever even spoken to one another before today! He had no way of knowing Maedhros wouldn’t turn around and stab him in turn. The question of why Fingon spared him had been turning in his head since the event occurred.

“A bedroll,” said Maedhros, before Fingon could finish opening his mouth to backtrack, if the sudden regret on his face was any indication. Let it never be said Maedhros went into something halfway. If they said they were allies that is what they would be. “Some rope and a lighter.”

“A lighter,” repeated Fingon with disdain. His fingers rubbed at the edge of his jacket. Now that Maedhros got a good look at him, he did seem a bit crispy around the edges. Parts of his braids were even unraveling, the edges burnt to a bark-dry black. “It’ll be useful enough, but the next time I see fire will be too soon.”

“What happened to you?” asked Maedhros, rocking back on his heels and sitting fully down. For now, at least, the gamemakers seemed content enough to let them rest.

“ _ Someone _ set the forest I was in on fire.” He gave Maedhros a look that was part stink eye, part joking conspiracy. “You seem too smart to do it, and anyway it seemed a bit… manufactured. Something about all the fireballs shooting at me just didn't seem natural,” he concluded with a twitch of his eyebrow.

Maedhros muffled a snort. “That does seem a bit too strange to be normal,” he agreed with mock seriousness. “Though I expected tricks like those to take a while longer to happen.”

The most horrible thing that could happen to the Hunger Games was if they were  _ boring _ . Not death, not starvation or dehydration, nor torture, nor even cannibalism (though the last was frowned upon). Boredom was a capital sin in--well, the Capitol. What was the point of a boring Hunger Games, for all those insipid people with nothing better to do but watch teenagers slaughter each other?

As such, if the games went too long without some dramatic event, the gamemakers would engineer one. Usually these were designed to force a confrontation between tributes though, not kill one themselves. 

Fingon suddenly stabbed an arrow into the water. One of the fishes too stupid to be wary thrashed on the tip until it stilled. Fingon watched it somberly. “Maybe all the death yesterday wasn’t interesting enough for them.”

Frowning at the fishes swimming away, Maedhros said, “Or they were herding you toward that canyon.”

He could feel Fingon’s eyes on him. “Yes, there might be that.” Another splash of water, another dead fish. “I guess that didn’t go according to the gamemakers expectations then.”

Maedhros lifted his face and met Fingon’s gaze. “I expect it didn’t.”

Fingon regarded him through half-lidded eyes, and smiled. It was more a baring of teeth, vicious and spiteful, almost triumphant in its edge. It was the second genuine smile he had shown Maedhros. “ _ Good _ .”

Suddenly, Maedhros understood why he had been saved. “Like subverting expectations, do you?”

“Of course,” Fingon smirked. “Imagine how bored I’d be if I just acted like how everyone expected.”

It wasn’t even a funny statement, but Maedhros couldn’t contain it: the laugh burst from his chest and made him double over. The stress and hysteria of the past few days (the past few  _ weeks _ ) he’d pushed down was ripped out of him, and tears leaked from the edges of his eyes.

When he finally calmed down and gasped for air, Fingon was staring at him. His mouth hung open ever so slightly. With the body of another unfortunate fish hanging limply in his hand, he made such a comic image Maedhros descended into more giggles. This time he remembered to muffle them in his palm.

“Are you planning on eating those?” Maedhros gasped out when he regained control of himself. “Or just holding them up for exhibition?”

Fingon flushed and lowered the fish. His jaw worked and then, with the corners up his mouth turning up said, “I don’t know. Do you think I could best the fashions from the opening ceremony with these?” He held the fishes up to his ears as though they were a pair of ostentatious jewelry.

Maedhros covered another laugh by coughing. “I would award you best outfit,” he said with as much seriousness he could muster. 

Fingon’s eyes sparkled when he grinned. “That means a great deal coming from the current winner.”

“Oh no, your outfit clearly outstripps mine. Those earrings are just so charmingly--” Maedhros scrambled for a word. “Scaly.”

Fingon’s face turned red as he struggled to control himself, and then he dropped the fishes and howled with laughter. Maedhros laughed with him, chest warm for the first time in weeks.

“Scaly!” Fingon gasped. “Was that the best you could do? Wasn’t your grandmother a fashion designer?”

“She was a seamstress!” Maedhros’ cheeks hurt from how wide he was smiling, or perhaps for smiling at all. He didn’t think he’d felt this cheerful in… far too long. “I’m sorry my vernacular is disappointing. I suppose I shall never be hired to comment on the opening ceremony now.”

Fingon snickered. “I’m afraid you might have to find another career.”

“Alas!” said Maedhros, not even able to remotely fake sadness with the way his lips twitched upwards. Fingon cackled. Maedhros joined him for a final round of snickering.

At the end Fingon leaned back onto his palms. “Ah, I needed that laugh.” He shook his head, still smiling such that it reached his eyes, and poked the fish. “Despite my earlier words about fire, I rather wish we had some.” A hopeful yet self-deprecating look crossed his features. “I don’t suppose that lighter of yours is enough to roast these?” 

Maedhros shook his head. Fingon didn’t look surprised, but he did look disappointed. He sighed. “I shot down a squirrel the first day,” Fingon said. “I figured the Careers were still too tired to chase after me, so I chanced a fire and then ran until it was too dark to keep going. But it’s all gone now.” He grimaced. “I can’t even recognize the species of this fish and don't fancy eating it raw anyway. Not unless it’s sushi.”

Maedhros had only the vaguest idea what this ‘sushi’ was. A platter of rolled up rice and seaweed came to mind; something he had seen at a banquet so long ago it felt like an entirely different lifetime. His lips thinned to conceal his disgust. Raw fish. It smelled terrible enough when it was alive. 

“Let’s make a fire, then.”

“You’re kidding.” Fingon looked at him as though he were a lunatic. To be fair, Maedhros wasn’t sure he was wrong. “I thought the point of these games was staying alive.”

“It’s actually killing people before they kill you.”.

“Well, I’m not going to attract anyones attention through smoke or flame.”

“I’m not actually stupid.” Maedhros rolled his eyes. He poked at the earth, which was muddy and gave way under his fingers. Not next to the river, perhaps, but close by? He stood and stretched, careful not to pull at his injured shoulder, then started digging a hole a few paces away. “There’s ways to conceal smoke and fire light. Though it would be smart to move afterwards, just in case.”

There was some shuffling, then Fingon peered into the hole he was making. After a moment, he crouched down and helped dig. It went much faster with his help, seeing as he still had the benefit of two working arms. “It’s nice to have this knowledge,” he said with a queer tone.

Maedhros watched him from underneath his eyelashes. “You should have asked the camping trainer for help if you didn’t know it.”

Fingon’s motion stilled. His eyebrows raised. “You learned this during training? As in a few days ago?”

“Yes.” It wasn’t like he had to hide a fire while hiking, usually. Though Celegorm, wilderness survival nerd that he was, had probably known about this trick beforehand.

Fingon’s mouth twisted into a dubious little bend. “Are you sure this will work?”

“It did in training.”

A debate seemed to rage behind Fingon’s eyes. Maedhros ignored it to keep digging until it matched what his instructor had shown him. Then, after checking the wind direction, he dug a smaller tunnel leading to the side of the opening. At that point, Fingon sat back on his haunches. “The smoke goes out the hole?”

“Not exactly. It’s supposed to use less fuel this way.”

“Less fuel,” Fingon mused. “Less smoke. Okay.” He stood and left, taking only his bow and arrow with him. Maedhros heard the rustling of branches snapping from several meters away. Fingon returned carrying enough kindling for a much larger pit.

They finished making the pit and laid green wood over the top, placing the fish on top of that. Fingon went back to try his luck at spear-fishing using his arrows and killed six more fish before the entire group wisened up and swam away. He then finished descaling them due to greater proficiency.

When the first fish was pronounced done (by Fingon, who took over cooking duty when Maedhros kept “excessively wrinkling his nose”), they took a simultaneous bite of their parts. Maedhros chewed very slowly. 

“This is the worst fish I’ve ever had.” Fingon declared, then took another bite.

Maedhros tried not to think of the taste. “I don’t have a basis for comparison.”

“ _ Seriously _ ? You haven’t had fish before?” When Maedhros nodded, Fingon looked genuinely pained. “I’m so sorry this had to be the first fish you ate. I swear I’m a better cook normally.”

“I believe you,” Maedhros said. Privately, he thought his avoidance of seafood the few times it was offered was in the right.

“No, really, I am,” Fingon insisted. “I can’t believe you never ate it before.”

“I live in the  _ mountains, _ ” said Maedhros with emphasis. “District 1 is so close to the Capitol you can see the lights from it in the distance. Where would I have even gotten fish?”

“The Capitol this past week? They had good food, I’ll give them that.”

Maedhros’ face scrunched. “I wasn’t going to spend what might be the last good meal of my life on  _ fish _ .”

“What about crabs?” Fingon suggested. “Lobster? Eel? Duck?”

“Duck isn’t seafood.”

“It’s water food.” They both paused. “Fowl,” Fingon amended with a grin.

“Duck doesn’t count.”

Fingon chewed the last of his fish with deliberation and no small amount of determination. “This is terribly sad. I may cry at your unfortunate existence. “

“Go ahead,” Maedhros said, forcing down another fish.  _ Think of the hunger you will feel if there is no food, _ he reminded himself.

“Harsh,” Fingon commented. “You know what? If it weren’t for these games I’d somehow smuggle you into District 4, just so you are forced to confront the wonder of seafood.”

That was illegal. Movement between districts was obsensily forbidden except with special permission. But they were going to die anyway, so what was talk of treason between allies? 

Then again, this was the hunger games, and Maedhros wouldn't put it past the gamemakers to punish them. To die later because of the games or die now because of treason talk. A terrible harsh choice to make indeed.

Maedhros hummed and took a bite of his disgusting food. “Are you offering to cook for me?”

Fingon had been about to take a bite, but paused. “You know what? Sure. I’ll cook the most delicious meal you’ve ever tasted.” 

Maedhros waited until Fingon resumed eating to say, “That’s a marriage proposal where I’m from.”

Fingon choked and sputtered. His eyes flew wide open, his cheeks turned red and blotchy, and his mouth fell open. “Really?!”

“No.” 

Maedhros muffled his snort at the pure outrage that crossed Fingon’s face. “You!” His words grew strangled in his throat.

“Yes?” Maedhros prompted as Fingon’s mouth opened and closed without further words.

Fingon drew back, a glint in his eyes Maedhros could not name. “You’re teasing me!” he accused, a smile spreading on his lips.

“Am I?” 

Now Fingon was smiling properly. “You are! And to think I thought you were so serious and sullen!”

It was Maedhros’ turn to sputter. “Sullen!” he repeated indignantly. The seriousness he could accept--Maglor and Curufin accused him of being such frequently. But  _ sullen _ ?

“ _ Brooding _ ,” drawled Fingon, his teeth baring as he grinned. “Grumpy. Morose.”

“I get your point,” Maedhros said. To his consternation, he did indeed sound quite grumpy. 

Fingon laughed, a deep-bellied sound that echoed in Maedhros’ own chest. Then he snatched the last fish from the fire and waved it at Maedhros, who could not help but flinch.

“You see,” said Fingon, immediately sitting back. Maedhros could not tell if he had noticed Maedhros’ slip. He forced his muscles to relax. “This is the power of fish. It brings out the best in people.”

Maedhros swallowed. “Such a shame it tasted bad, then.” He could not match his earlier cheer. At most, the words had a modicum of levity. 

Fingon shook his head and dropped the fish back on the fire. “I’m angry I don’t have the evidence to argue right now. But here, since you made this fire, I think you can have the last fish.” One corner of his mouth quirked up. “Since I know you enjoyed it so much.”

At this Maedhros’ smile came easier. He ripped the fish in half and offered one half to Fingon, who seemed pleasantly surprised at the development. Did he really think Maedhros would be rude enough to just take the final fish for himself? Death game where every last calorie counted or not, Maedhros had standards.

Fingon  _ did  _ think Maedhros sullen, and brooding, and all sorts of other disdainful descriptions. Perhaps ‘bad table manners’ was among them, though Maedhros was certain he had eaten with utmost poise at the dining halls in-between training. 

Well, it was the hunger games. As long as his bad dining habits didn’t slip into cannibalism, the audience would be hard-pressed to find fault in him.

Not that Maedhros cared much for what the audience thought.

They finished the meal in silence. Fingon seemed cheerful if subdued, and Maedhros was--serious. Thoughtful.

He was  _ not  _ sullen.

It was just that they had been quite loud, and who knew how many other paths up the mountain existed. It would be ill-luck for their location to become known this way, with Maedhros’ shoulder sending sharp bursts of pain through his arm with every movement and aching dully even when still. And Fingon…

Well, Fingon had his bow and arrows, and a keen eye and steady hand.

The remnants of the fish tasted like ash in his mouth. He may owe Fingon his life, but he wouldn’t simply depend on him to keep it either. 

The time for rest was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was the little marriage joke in character or realistic? probably not. but it made me chuckle to write and this is self indulgent, so i kept it. sorry if they're a bit ooc here haha. hope you enjoyed even so!


	4. Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to send a quick thanks to everyone commenting and kudos-ing and reading ^-^ this was such a self-indulgent project I didn't think anyone else would be interested ahhahah

After concealing their lunch camp, Fingon and Maedhros continued up the mountain. The air was more biting here, stinging his teeth when Fingon breathed in. He zipped up his coat, grateful the fire hadn’t done more than singe the edges. It was better to have just lost an entire hand-width of hair than the coat. 

Maedhros seemed remarkably unscathed beside him. Other than occasionally pressing his hand to it, he gave no indication his shoulder hurt. Fingon was still nauseous when he remembered that sickening _crack_ as he popped it back into place with nary a flinch.

Truly, his companion was built of strong stuff. 

They followed the river up to a gently flowing pool of water. Not the source--it was not bubbling--but a small area to rest in. They refilled that canteen Maedhros had and took turns sipping as the sun slowly set behind the opposite horizon.

The sun's rays extended across the sky like fingers reaching for stars they could never touch. Silently, Fingon watched the clouds burst into brilliant pinks and oranges. The sky above turned purple in their wake.

Not so different from the ocean views. It was still the same sun. Still the same moon, still the same stars.

Was his family watching the sunset even now, as it slowly descended behind the ocean? Or were they watching it on-screen, if any focus was being given to Fingon: the last rays of the hiding star illuminating him. 

More likely they were busy with their jobs or schoolwork or eating dinner at home. The hunger games _was_ a festival, but no one was free from duties for long. Not even the family of the tributes.

He forced a smile for the cameras, on the off chance they were indeed watching him. Then he stood and stretched, pulling at those muscles cramping from the long day of running for his life.

Running for his life and eating fish, he amended with amusement. Maedhros had been similarly watching the sunset, his eyes closed as he basked in the last rays of daylight. His face looked like carved marble when it was so still. 

But the movement had disturbed his paranoid and twitchy ally. Now he watched Fingon with those solem gray eyes, his lips nothing but a serious line. Fingon smiled at him and said, “Shall we make camp here? The view is rather nice.”

The solemnity did not entirely fade, but his mouth twitched. A victory. “I hope you don’t judge all campsites here based on the view.”

Fingon placed his hand over his heart as though he would swoon. “But Maedhros, what other standard would I judge them by?”

He’s not sure what response he’s expecting. A serious explanation of the virtues of judging campsites based on survivability? Running with the joke of the importance of aesthetics? It was hard to predict what reaction he would have. Fingon’s stomach fluttered in interest as he waited.

Maedhros lazily observed the crater-valley below, and the sunset straight ahead, then looked behind him at the expanse of mountain peaks they had yet to climb. “Maybe you’re right.” His gaze was distant as though he were speaking to someone only he could see. 

Fingon shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Camp, then?”

Maedhros shook his head. “Not here, the trees won’t hold our weight or disguise us.” He hitched the backpack over his left shoulder with a grunt, then walked further into the forest. If he cared he was exposing his vulnerable back to Fingon, he didn’t show it.

Following a handful of steps behind, Fingon couldn’t help but scratch his nose in disgruntlement. He had tried to climb the trees yesterday on principle of survivability. He was an archer, high vantage points were to his benefit.

It was just that he had spent his childhood swimming with his friends, or running along the sandy banks and rolling grassy plains of his hometown, not climbing trees. He had little experience at it. It took him three tries before he made it up a decent height, his fingernails scraping and breaking on bark for purchase. Climbing the cliff had been almost easy in comparison.

He did not fancy a repeat of experience.

To add insult to injury, despite being half a head taller and (presumably) heavier, Maedhros hauled himself up a tree with--

Well, not _ease_. There was still the ruined shoulder to consider, and the pack to maneuver around. But even with those handicaps, Maedhros was still able to reach a good height up the tree. 

Fingon doubted he could have gotten up half as high if he had been in his position. His estimate of Maedhros’ athletic prowess and durability went up another notch. 

With two functioning hands but less dignity, Fingon climbed a neighboring tree. By the time he made it to the same height as his red-haired companion, his limbs were trembling and his hair was sticking to his face.

Harsh breathing betrayed Maedhros’ own exertion. His face, so far as Fingon could make it out in the fading light, was as pale as a bone. A thin line of red dripped down his chin; he must have broken through skin biting his lips. His left hand clutched his right shoulder with white knuckles. Fingon could just about make out trembles that rocked his entire body.

Irrational guilt flooded him. He had _saved his life,_ against every common sense. Spared it, even. If Maedhros had been injured, surely it was a lesser price to pay?

But an injury was an injury, though Fingon’s intention had only been good. “I’m sorry,” he said, somewhat miserably.

It was so silent with the songbirds sleeping that Fingon heard Maedhros’ harsh intake of breath as he was startled from his pain. “For what?” Maedhros said. His voice held only the slightest wobble.

“The shoulder.”

Maedhros turned his head to look at him. “You’re apologizing for the _shoulder_?” he repeated, his brows furrowing together in confusion..

“Yes,” said Fingon, feeling equal parts embarrassed and wretched. “It’s kind of my fault.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“It kind of is. If I hadn’t shot you down--”

“I’d still be hanging there.” Maedhros did not seem impressed with his reasoning. Fingon tried another route.

“Well, if I’d done it differently--”

“Fingon,” Maedhros interrupted, firm but gentle. His words had held the slightest traces of a gasp this entire time, the wobble of his pain he could not disguise. But Fingon’s name was said with such command that Fingon’s back straightened in reflex. “If it’s anyone’s fault it's the gamemakers for creating the trap in the first place, or my own for triggering it. Don’t send yourself into some… misplaced guilty spiral, or whatever it is you’re doing.”

Fingon’s cheeks burned at being so easily read. “Okay,” he said, a smile entering his voice. “Though if you need help with something--”

“I’m _fine_.”

No, no you’re not. But Fingon did not argue the point. They fell into a tense silence, broken only by the burbling of the river nearby. 

When the anthem played that night, no faces accompanied it. Despite the best efforts of the gamemakers, no one had died.

  
  


\--

  
  
  


_When tributes are reaped, they are granted one last meeting with their families. Ten entire minutes to distill a wasted lifetime into goodbye. What were the chances any single one of them could win? At the end of the day, it was just you and twenty-three enemies and an arena that wanted you dead._

_When Fingon was reaped, he was granted that one final meeting. Argon and Aredhel had barreled through the doorway, Turgon only a step away as they all crashed into him and sent him sprawling into the floor._

_“Careful!” Fingon had exclaimed, trying for levity and ending on the far side of ‘too shocked to even process the histeria’. “Don’t injure me before I even leave.”_

_Argon predictably burst into tears at this declaration. Then his parents were there, kneeling in their formal robes on the floor and gathering the four of them into a hug. Fingon was crushed so tightly his lungs struggled to find the room to breathe._

_“You need to try and win,” Aredhel kept mumbling into his chest. “You need to try.” She stared up at him with snot dripping down her nose. “Promise me you will.”_

_Before he could answer, Turgon had said, “I thought about it. Your chances. You’re good with a bow, and most tributes will be too starved to survive, so if you play to your strengths--”_

_“We’ll be behind you every step of the way,” his mother promised him fiercely. “Even though we cannot be there with you, we’ll rally for money, and publicity, and ensure you get good sponsors--”_

_“Listen to what Throndor and Uinen tell you,” Fingolfin said. His own voice was tight and contained, as though the mere effort of speaking betrayed an urge to go and punch Melkor on his behalf. “ Everything they tell you. They’ve brought tributes back before, they know what they’re doing.”_

_Argon merely hugged him tighter. “Promise you’ll do whatever you can to win.”_

_Tears stung at Fingon’s eyes. He rubbed them away and then let his mother swipe a handkerchief over his face and fix his outfit until he was presentable again._

_“I promise,” he told them before the game-makers entered and forced his family out. “I’ll do whatever it takes to come back alive.”_

  
  


\--

  
  


In the morning, a soft layer of mist descended upon the crater-valley down below. Fingon hadn’t noticed it when he was in it, but it was unmistakable from above. The air must be colder than he had thought. 

Certainly, he was feeling the effects of elevation. He woke shivering, and it was only the rope Maedhros lent him that kept him from falling off the branch entirely.

Much to Fingon’s consternation, Maedhros was not affected by the cold. He even looked downright snug, wrapped in that bedroll of his with _sunglasses_ of all things perched on his nose. With a huff, Fingon pulled one of the bits of smoked fish they had made yesterday from a pocket and chewed on it. It was still too dry, still too tough, still unseasoned; still a far cry from even the worst meals of District 4. 

Fingon was relatively certain it was a problem with the fish and not the cooking method, but that just further spoiled his appetite. 

He ate and listened to the songbirds trill their morning melodies. Though he wished to join them, he resigned himself to a few hums that did little more than vibrate against his own chest. At the very least his vocal chords were warming up, even if the rest of him felt like a human-sized ice cube.

When dawn finished breaking, Maedhros shuddered awake in his own bedroll. With a sleepy groan, he pawed those sunglasses off his face. 

“Good morning,” said Fingon cheerfully. It was the first time he had meant it since… he was reaped, probably. 

Not dying miserably in a fire or because your maybe-ally stabbed you in the back at first chance truly put things into perspective.

Maedhros’ eyes flew open and his hand flew to his legs, right over where that sharp knife of his was. He wobbled dangerously in his branch, held in place by his rope and bedroll wrap.

“Easy,” soothed Fingon, not daring to move for fear of startling him further. “It’s just me.”

Maedhros’ gray eyes focused on his face with a scorching intensity. Then, he blinked, and the feeling of a sunbeam burning through a magnet onto his skin disappeared. “Good morning,” said Maedhros. Despite a clear effort, he wasn’t able to disguise the wariness in his voice. 

Fingon gamely ignored it. “Lovely day, isn’t it?” He waited for Maedhros to nod. “Doesn’t seem like anyone got on our trail, so we probably got away with that campfire.” 

“That’s good.” Maedhros wasn’t a talkative person in the morning, then. Good to know. Or maybe he was just wary and in pain. He hadn’t been a talkative person yesterday until he suddenly started teasing Fingon, and then he had been spooked by Fingon waving a fish under his nose, and was barely vocal after they ate.

He was like a feral cat, was Fingon’s initial judgement, ruminated in the boring hours of the morning when he had nothing but dried fish and his own thoughts for company. You had to approach them slowly, and after that initial offering, wait for them to come to you. Some food also helped. 

The thought amused him so much he chuckled, ignoring the side-glance Maedhros sent him. After untangling himself and sliding down the tree, he popped the cracks in his back with a full body stretch. A cat stretch.

“What’s so funny?” asked Maedhros, joining him on the ground with some maneuvering. His face gained a purple hue from the minor exertion. 

“Nothing,” Fingon said in a sing-song voice. “I’m just happy to be alive!” Then he laughed properly, because the evasion was no evasion at all.

It was good to see another day.

He swung in a half-circle to face Maedhros, his braids hallowing around his head. “What do you think we should do first? Search for food? Maybe some shelter. I’m not sure if you felt it but it got _cold_ this morning.” He tilted his head consideringly and quirked an eyebrow. “Say, weaver’s grandson. You wouldn't happen to know how to make a blanket out of a tree, would you?”

“She was a seamstress,” Maedhros corrected. “And no.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Though it is getting colder. More than I expected, at any rate.”

“There’s snow on the peaks.”

“Even accounting for that.” Maedhros shook his head. “Finding proper shelter is a good idea. Though whether we can keep it is another matter. Food should be our priority,” he flicked a finger, and his eyes held a distance that indicated he was talking to himself, “then another source of water, just in case.” Another finger. “Then shelter, or proper weapons.” Two more fingers. He curled them all in a fist, his mien twisted by a small downturn of his lips.

“Food then,” decided Fingon. “And then we can see about the rest.”

The matter of ‘more food’ was easily resolved by going back down the mountain until the fish started appearing. They were swimming upwards on a mating run by Fingon’s guess. 

“Sorry little fishies,” he told the unlucky few to be caught on his arrow point. It was easier now that the fish were no longer wary. Their short memories truly worked to his advantage. “No sexy times for you, I’m afraid.”

Maedhros choked beside him. Strangling a laugh, probably, and Fingon hid a smile to hear it. Unprompted, he explained his deduction about the fish, and Maedhros cracked a rueful smile. 

“They have nearly as bad luck as we do,” he said.

“Indeed,” Fingon agreed, injecting as much drama into his voice as he could. “Why, here they toil up the river, expecting a grand tale of romance to follow--and instead the only romance they will have is with my stomach!”

This earned him a full laugh muffled by the back of a hand. It softed Maedhros’ features into something gentle and lovely. 

“That reminds me,” said Fingon after Maedhros finished laughing, but was still light with joy. “Where did you get that joke about marriage? You said it so convincingly too, I’ve been wondering all day if there’s a story behind it.” 

“No story,” said Maedhros. “It’s a custom in District 2.”

“Really?” 

“Yes.” Another one of those smiles graced his face. “I promise I’m not joking this time.”

“Hmm,” said Fingon. “That’s...rather romantic actually.”

It had been why it had touched him so, the unexpected intimacy of cooking for another in the context of marriage. Fingon’s parents cooked together almost daily, except for when they hired someone to do it for them, or one of their children did it instead. 

The more he thought of the joke, the more the memory of their sides pressed together, heads bent low in some murmured discussion, smiles on their faces filled his mind. The more he thought of his family desperately hugging him goodbye. Would they ever even share another meal all together?

He shook off the sudden melancholy and waved his fish so the tail flapped. “These should hold for a while before they go bad. It’s probably not a good idea to make another fire until twilight.”

“They already stink,” said Maedhros without any heat. His own knife was stabbed through another fish. Between the two of them, they nabbed just over a dozen before the fish thoroughly avoided them. If they could also turn these into dried meat, they’d be good for several days.

They used the net to hold them on Fingon’s suggestion. He did it partly out of his own amusement, imagining the ribbing Uncle Finarfin would give him at being such a poor fisherman he had to manually stab each fish and then place them in his net. The other reason was to lighten the weight on that backpack.

The wire Maedhros had fashioned into a simple trap near that pool yielded a dead squirrel. Maedhros grinned at the trap’s result, happily chucking it into the food-net. They then hiked along the river further upwards. The terrain here was still a dense forest, with the occasional rocks. Though he heard plenty of birds, they were well distant or concealed, and any other animals were either not there or avoided them.

The latter seemed more likely. Once, he spotted a rabbit resting on a trunk. It realized it had been spotted a moment too late, and Fingon’s arrow hit its eye, and into the food net it went. Maedhros clapped politely as Fingon gave a hushed cheer.

They were halfway up the mountain by Fingon’s estimate when a minor earthquake shook the ground out from under them.

Fingon staggered to keep his balance, leaning on a tree when the tremor returned a beat later. Again, the earth and trees shook, more intensely each time, and birds screamed above them as they fled towards the other mountainside.

“This isn’t an earthquake!” Maedhros hissed. He was looking in the direction the animals were fleeing from with dawning horror.

Fingon ran through a mental list of all things that could make the earth shake this way--more things than one would expect, but this _was_ the hunger games--and paled when he saw a burst of flame rise above the not-so-distant treetops. That narrowed it down to: “Dragon!”

“ _Shit_ !” said Maedhros with feeling. He shoved himself away from his own tree and stumbled into a jog. “Come on, we need to _run_!”

Branches smacked into his face as they ran through the thick underbrush of the forest. Fingon’s heart beat like war drums in his chest, ominous and loud. The net full of game beat into his back as his feet beat the earth. The earth continued to shudder every other breath, sending them stumbling into each other, the ground, and the other animals that burst from hiding to desperately flee.

The forest gave way to a rocky canyon with twisting pillars and jagged stones. Up above there was more forest for cover, so Fingon and Maedhros ran towards it, only to smack into thin air half-way through. 

Fingon’s forehead ached from the impact, black spots burning his eyes from the burst of not-quite-electricity that crackled through him during the collision. “The barrier,” he gasped. It had to be. Nothing but the strange force-field that surrounded all hunger games venues was like this.

Maedhros cursed. He looked beyond the barrier with a hunger that Fingon knew was echoed in his own face. Freedom. It was so close, but you couldn’t even see the obstacles in the way until you ran into them.

He swallowed to say something, but the earth shuddered again, damningly getting stronger with every beat, and there was no more time for contemplation. They ducked behind stone outcroppings just as a scaled giant slithered into view. 

Fingon didn’t even dare breathe. 

His hair stood on end. His blood was pumping so loudly it drowned out all sounds. Still, he could hear the dragon flicking its tongue out. A harsh sound of inhaled air shuddered through the clearing. 

Fingon dared a glance at Maedhros, who was crouched behind a large stone to his right. The whites in his eyes were bright spots shining from gray skin. 

Underneath them, the earth shuddered. 

Dust and rock fell onto Fingon, who didn’t dare utter a sound. He met Maedhros’ eyes and prayed, desperately, to any god whose name he could think of. 

The rock shattered above them. 

Fingon and Maedhros threw themselves across the clearing as their shelter broke underneath the dragon’s strike. It’s sulfurous eyes burned against its dirt-gray leathery skin, tracking their movements with hateful glee. 

A malicious grin split its face in two, a stream of yellow-red crawling up its throat. Fingon had just enough time to realize what would happen when he and Maedhros slammed into a wall cover and the jet of flame scorched the earth where they last were.

The heatwave burned Fingon’s eyes, and he cursed as his vision watered. The dragon chuckled, a sound so horrid it was like tar poured into the marrow of his bones. Again, the earth shuddered. Fingon could now tell it was a languid movement and not another strike.

Curse them all, the dragon was _intelligent_. Intelligent, and sadistic too.

Since when did Melkor have the ability to make his giant lizard monsters _intelligent_? If he released them into the districts--

“It’s toying with us!” Maedhros hissed, evidently coming to the same conclusion as him.

Dragons were dangerous enough being mindless beasts. So many tributes died when meeting them. The only hope was to outrun or evade.

Fingon and Maedhros could do neither.

To one side: the barrier, preventing any sort of freedom.

To the other, the dragon, still maliciously laughing as it slowly approached.

His heart raced as his mind jumped from angle to angle, desperately searching for a solution. 

From the corner of his eyes he saw Maedhros chance a glance out of the wall. He jumped back as a small fireball smacked into the barrier behind them, melting the rocky ground and splashing vicious, flammable liquid everywhere. 

Another tremor.

Fingon gathered his valor and snuck a glance himself.

Past a handful of shattered stones, the dragon’s great bulk approached. Behind it, the forest sloped downwards. 

It’s gaze burned like forges, and Fingon ducked behind the fragile safety of the rock before it could send a fireball his way.

“We need to move,” said Maedhros, gasping for air like a dying fish. This close, he could hear each shallow breath all too loud for his comfort. It didn’t matter; the dragon already knew where they were. 

“It’ll kill us as soon as we do!” whispered Fingon furiously.

Maedhros swallowed. “I know that, but unless we make a distraction and escape somehow we will just die _here_ instead!”

The earth trembled. 

Fingon mentally brought up the dragon’s location and appearance. Its hide was too thick for one of his arrows to pierce, he could tell that much at a glance.

But its eyes, they were such big, vulnerable targets. 

“Do you think--” he began, then stopped as the earth trembled so strongly he felt the reverberations in his bones. The strange, hissing inhale that preceded that horrible torrent of flame pulled at the air. No time, then. “Get ready to run!” Maedhros looked at him as though he were a lunatic but Fingon didn’t stop moving to wait for him. 

He strung an arrow and ran out of the stone pillar. The dragon’s beady yellow eyes focused on him. It’s black teeth opened as a burning ball of flame and liquid hissed behind them. 

He let the arrow free, still running and already knowing he would not escape the flames in time, when the liquid fireball was already splashing towards him. Something hard and heavy impacted his side, and Fingon lost his footing with a yell, crashing against the rocks below in a tangle of limbs and red and _heat_ scorching the tips of his hair and making his eyes burn--

There was a horrible scream of pain from a non-human throat, and it vibrated in his bones until they threatened to break, and the ground underneath trembled and shattered, rolling like a ship on an ocean wave--

Rock exploded overhead and fell molten at his feet and burned holes in him where it landed. His skin peeled off where his coat wasn’t melting into it, muscles screaming in agony as the fire and vibrations tore him apart. His lungs were burning inside him and his scream was choked off before it could leave his throat, there was so much _smoke--_

“Come _on_ , we need to run!” and a hand desperately clutching his and pulling him up and away. Fingon stumbled blindly, pulled along until his head stopped ringing and he started running on his own.

He squeezed tightly at Maedhros’ hand as they escaped, the dragon’s pain scorching the earth behind them, an echo of agony to mirror Fingon’s face and lungs--he could not see, and if he let go of Maedhros, or Maedhros abandoned him to save himself--

He heard rushing water. The burning mountain forest gave way to the river rapidly flowing down down _down_ , and they ran along it’s muddy side until it plunged off a cliff face. 

“Jump!” yelled Maedhros, and still holding hands they took a running leap off the cliffside, plummeted alongside a waterfall, and slammed into the water. 

It hit him with sharp intensity, near freezing upon his scorched being. Fingon floated weightless for a second before long-trained instincts kicked in and he swam up towards the shore, Maedhros crawling onto the wet sand beside him. 

They collapsed there, chests heaving and clothes sticking to exhausted bodies. Fingon rolled onto his back to watch the smoke columns paint the sky black. His breath calmed with each moment he couldn’t feel shaking earth or hear pained roars.

“We’re alive,” he wheezed when his lungs stopped burning. He raised a fist in celebration, then it flopped onto the sand, boneless. “Woo.”

Maedhros stopped coughing long enough to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a shorter, filler-y ch this time. was a bit longer at first but i felt like this was a better ending point. thanks again to everyone and i hope you enjoyed <33


	5. Songs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> actually i lied last chapter had a dragon, this is the true filler ch haha. it also has the most self indulgent scene out of many self indulgent scenes in this fic

_Angband was an eerie place to visit. Overly cacophonous and silent as a grave by turns, the dark mountains rising up around them blanketed it all in shadow and chill. Its buildings glittered with steel and glass like serrated teeth, lamplights distorted in the morning mists that descended upon the mountain range._

_The inhabitants were no less dangerous. Maedhros knew from his mother’s information that people in other districts found them gaudy, ostentatious, even downright unnatural. However, District 1 was close enough to assimilate some of the culture. Even though few in District 1 had slipped into full on mutations for aesthetics, the wide range of styles and jewelry was not so strange to him as it would be to the more distant districts._

_But familiar did not mean “not-dangerous”, and Maedhros knew that he would forever be marked an outsider, a threat, a way to gain influence with his father. His life would have to be a carefully choreographed dance of fake smiles and hidden intentions if he wished to survive._

_Perhaps, someday, people would seek his father out to gain influence with Maedhros instead._

_Such thoughts were almost sacrilegious. At any rate, Maedhros was not here to compete with his father’s position in the Angband hierarchy. He was here to earn his place and hope the accusations of nepotism (blatantly true though they were) would be assayed with his competence and skill._

“Maedhros,” _said Feanor as they entered the administrative rotunda of Angband. Maedhros jumped. The laws he had been reviewing flew out of his head at once._

_“Yes, father?”_

_“Relax.”_

_Maedhros forced his lungs to breathe out the tension in his limbs. His nails picked at the embroidery of his robes. He took in the rotunda as pedestrians and palanquins flocked about to and fro the area. The university proper was off through one side-street, and so they went at his father’s carefully measured pace. Governance buildings bracketed each side of the street, their gleaming gilded edges revealing nothing of what went on inside._

_Of course, everyone here already knew what each building was for. There was no need for labels._

_It did, however, make navigation a disorienting event for the uninformed. It didn’t help that passerbys would stop and gawk at them as they recognized his father._

_In District 1, they would have hired one of the palanquins instead of walking. Maedhros wondered, briefly, why they did not do the same here. They stood out, not only in Maedhros’ height, but in his father’s boundless status in Angband. It’s not that it was so different in District 1, but at least in District 1 Maedhros could place names to faces. He was greeted with smiles, or else stiff nods. Not this hungry regard as hushed whispers hidden behind gloved hands sprung about them._ _  
  
_

_Maedhros wondered if they knew what he was here for. He hoped not, even as a path opened up before them into the university proper. He kept his face still with practiced blankenese as the whispers increased behind him. The doors shut with a thundering finality, leaving only his fellow exam-takers and their attendants or family to size him up. Even they could not bear the brunt of Feanor’s glare for long._

_Curufin, newly turned thirteen and full of his own self importance, had scoffed when Maedhros received his invitation. “Why do you even bother? You know they’ll never give you a position of true importance.”_

_His first reaping had been just a few months before. Though he strived to hide his fear, Maedhros knew it had unnerved him. It even unnerved Maedhros, who had no reason to be afraid, what with his parent’s influence and the Career system in place. But he and his brothers had been safe for this long; they had nothing to fear. And with his final reaping fast approaching, Maedhros had started thinking long-term into the future, and sent a long-shot application to the Capitol University._

_“That doesn’t mean I should ignore it.” Maedhros said, as even as he could keep his voice. In truth, excitement made his stomach flip. So few District-born were ever invited to the university at Angband. Even though he still had to take entrance exams, his place was all but set._

_It was an honor--and more importantly, an opportunity to actually do something that mattered. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel pride at the recognition, even though a more cynical part of his brain told him it was only because of his father’s influence._

_“Don’t bother,” said Carnistir, not looking up from his math textbook. “He’s already Angband’s lapdog.”_

_Maedhros chose to be the bigger person here and ignored them both snidely ribbing at him. He stomped up the stairs to his room and started rummaging for his textbooks, and study notes, and clothing. What would he even_ wear _?_

_“So it's true?” Maglor was the only one of his siblings who would enter his room unannounced. He flopped onto Maitimo’s bed as though it were his own, and lazily scanned through the invitation letter. “Congratulations, I guess.”_

_Maedhros pulled out a formal, bejeweled robe and then slid it back into the depths of his closet after a beat of contemplation. It would need to be handed down after Maedhros’ latest (and hopefully last) growth spurt. “Thanks. Maybe you should also apply.”_

_Maglor scoffed as Maitimo knew he would. “I’m going to become famous through music, thank you very much. I’ll leave all that boring administrative stuff to you. I can’t believe you actually_ enjoy _it.”_

_“What else would I do with my life?_ Forge _?”_

_“What_ would _you do?” wondered Maglor. “I’m sure you’ll get in unless they’re being discriminatory, but if not…”_

_Maedhros paused. His hands curled into the collar of a silk jacket. “Jewel-smithing, maybe.”_

_“Not run for mayor?”_

_“The mayor has no power and you know it.” Maedhros gave up on his closet as a lost cause and flopped down besides Maglor. “The real power is in Angband. If I want to affect anything, I need to be there. Besides... it might help to have someone on the inside.”_

_Maglor shushed him in reflex. They were not supposed to know about their mother’s clandestine activities, let alone talk about it. But Maedhros knew it could only help to know someone in Angband._

_Someone less prone to angering everyone he met than their father, at any rate._

_Maedhros kept that running mantra in his head the entire day. The idea this would all be worth it someday was the only solace that liberated him from the anxiety thrumming through his veins._

_“Ah, Master Feanor, fancy to see you here,” greeted a smooth and somewhat familiar voice. It belonged to a tall, slender man with ash blond hair falling limply down his face and all the way to the middle of his thighs. His sharp features Maedhros could_ almost _recognize._

_“Lord Mairon,” greeted Feanor stiffly. With a jolt, the familiarity slotted into place. The last time Maedhros had come across this particular official of Melkor, his hair had been a shifting mass of fire-red curls, and his makeup had blocked off his face in harsh segments of color. This was a more… understated look than what Maedhros had expected._

_But then again, they were merely encountering one another during an average administrative day, not a fancy banquet. Though that begged the question of what he was doing in the University building of all places. As far as Maedhros knew, his job had something to do with ensuring the hunger games ran smoothly. What could he possibly have to do here? And during the entrance exam of all occasions._

_Regardless of his location or other appearance, the eyes stayed the same sulfur-yellow with slitted pupils, narrowing in interest on Maedhros. He hurried to bow his own greetings, but Mairon’s attention slid past him without further acknowledgement, settling once more on his father._

_For a moment, Maedhros wondered if he should feel disappointed at being so summarily dismissed by someone with such power and sway in Angband._

_“What brings you to the Capitol today?”_

_“Bureaucracy,” said Feanor, each syllable as distinct and perfunctory as it was when faced with an undesirable conversation partner. Or topic. Or both._

_“Oh?” Mairon leaned in, as though a moth drawn to his father’s flame. Such happened often when his father spoke. But Mairon’s burning sulfur gaze did not hold any adoration, merely a hidden sort of fascination and greed, like beggars gawking through the windows of a jewelry store whose work they could not afford._

_Merely caught in the sidelines of his father’s stiff discomfort and that terrible gaze, Maedhros forced his restless limbs into stillness. He decided that no, he was not disappointed at being dismissed by Mairon. Indeed, he was somewhat shamefully relieved._

_“My son,” Feanor said with a jerk of his chin in his direction. “Is here to take the entrance exams for your premier university. The honors track for administration, of course.” Some of his pride entered his voice. Maedhros straightened further in reflex._

_Unfortunately, Mairon’s attention slid back to him. “Is that so?” he murmured, his gaze sliding up and down Maedhros’ body. His hairs stood on end, and he restrained a shudder. “What an unexpected honor. You must be very proud,” he said to Feanor. A few more nonsense words were exchanged before he left with a parting, “ - Good luck on your exams, young Maedhros. I look forward to seeing your progress.”_

_Somehow, Maedhros was able to thank him without grimacing. His father held no such restraint, openly scowling at Mairon’s retreating back._

_Later, when they stepped off the train back in District 1, Feanor pulled him towards the treeline and checked their surroundings to make sure they were alone. “If you ever run into him again, be wary.”_

_Maedhros’ mind had been swirling in anxious review of his exam answers. This non-sequitur threw his growing certainty that he had miserably failed everything far away. “Father?”_

_“Mairon,” Feanor said with some impatience. “If you encounter him or any other official of Melkor in the Capitol, you must be wary.”_

_“The Capitol is full of Lord Melkor’s men, father.” Not to mention Maedhros would become one of them, if all went to plan._

_Feanor scoffed and shifted, once again surveying their surroundings. They were alone. “Yet not all hold his ear. You must be wary of those who do. Do not let them discern anything about you that you did not purposely project.”_

_“But can such connections not be used to our advantage?”_

_Tellingly, Feanor did not refute this. He shook his head and sighed. “We will speak of this later, when your mother returns.” He started walking back towards where their palanquins would await, but paused suddenly. “Maitimo.”_

_Maedhros started to suddenly hear his name in the Old Tongue, especially out in public. Now it was he who glanced around to confirm their privacy. “....Yes?”_

_His father clasped him on the shoulder. “Whatever my thoughts on_ bureaucracy _\- “ his public term of distaste for anything having to do with Angband, “ - I am proud of you, and everything you do. Whatever path you should take I will support. Do not forget that.”_

_Maedhros all but beamed at him._

  
  
  


\--

  
  
  


They stayed by the riverside as long as they dared. The water from the backpack Maedhros had was in low supply from their earlier walk, so they refilled it and drank greedily. Fingon especially all but threw himself into the water with a desperation he’d never felt before and never wanted to feel again.

He took the time to rinse off and wash his many injuries. They were all small, thank the stars, but they were numerous. And they blistered, burning and itching terribly. Worst of all were the few where he had to rip his clothing away from his skin to clean it out, the tender red flesh aching even at the touch of air. His jacket resembled a pin cushion from all the holes. It would be comical if it wasn’t Fingon’s lone protection from the elements.

Dragonfire was hotter than any flame he’d been near, and the smoke still dug its grimy claws into his lungs. It was lucky the noxious, flammable liquid had not done more than splash him. He wouldn't even _have_ a face to wash if it had caught on fire as well. Most of the damage came from the burning rocks and smoke.

If he closed his eyes he still felt the fireball hurling towards him. His side certainly still felt the impact of Maedhros body-slamming him out of the way. When Fingon lifted up his shirt to wash it, half his torso was a purpling bruise. His movements were already starting to become stiff as they pulled at the wounded muscles.

It would take too long to unbraid and wash the grime from his hair, then bind it all up again. More concerning were the places where his hair ribbon _melted_ into burnt hair, but there was nothing he could do for now. He settled for scrubbing the remaining ash from his face and trying to wash away the heat still licking at his eyes. They stung every time he blinked.

Though his eyes never entirely stopped aching, it faded into manageable levels with enough water. After a while, he squinted at Maedhros, who _had_ unbound his hair and was washing away the soot and grime. He seemed remarkably unaffected, for someone who had dislocated their shoulder and then had to run away from a dragon less than a day later. His gray eyes weren’t even red, though his face was a familiar pain-pale.

After a moment Maedhros noticed him staring. His fingers tightened on the curtain of red he was finger-combing. “What?”

“My eyes are still burning from the dragon flame,” Fingon said, slowly. “You don’t seem very affected.”

Was it some kind of career-focused modification? That sounded like cheating, so Fingon doubted even Maedhros son of Feanor could get away with it. If there was a trick to looking a dragon in the snout and not even blinking afterwards, he wanted to know it yesterday.

Maedhros resumed squeezing the water out of his hair and asked, for no reason Fingon could discern, “Ever been in a forge?”

“No?”

“I have.” Maedhros started to braid his hair in a simple three strand, and tied it at the base and end. Fingon’s fingers itched to do a better job. “You get used to high heat, or you get out.” 

“Huh,” said Fingon, who had at least seen the District 4 blacksmith walk around. “Don’t you have protective gear and stuff?”

Maedhros shrugged. “Doesn’t stop fire from feeling hot.”

Fingon smiled at this almost-joke. He resumed the task he had taken upon himself as of some minutes ago, when his stomach grumbled and he realized that he abandoned the net with food in the chaos. Namely: watch the river for fish. So far no luck.

To add insult to injury, Maedhros had actually kept his own backpack burden. It may have not been the smartest decision for his shoulder though. When Maedhros had been washing his own clothing free of the flammable dragon-spit, Fingon got a glance at the mottled purple-green-yellow skin that was his entire upper right side. His stomach turned. 

Maedhros used his remaining bandages and rope to fashion a brace of sorts, then gingerly pulled on his jacket again. He joined Fingon in the food watch, then left to gather up a few stray plants he found. Fingon joined him after another long moment with no fish.

The sky was darkening now from dusk, not just dragon smoke and burning trees. Fingon shivered as the wind rustled at his still-wet clothes. Up above the cliffside, the forest still burned red and black. Thankfully, they hadn’t heard the dragon’s thrashing or wailing for hours now. 

But down here, with the cliff-shadow cloaking them, and the smoke blocking the sun, and the sun now setting… it was starting to get cold. Very cold.

“I hate that we can’t even dry off our clothes,” he told Maedhros. “If it keeps getting colder we’re going to catch a cold.”

“Maybe we can risk a fire.” Maedhros looked over his shoulder to the forest that began some feet away, the river flowing into it and disappearing some distance in. “But if the rest of the tributes are still in this area, it will be easily spotted…” 

“That’s what I thought,” said Fingon grimly. Damned if they do, damned if they don’t. That was the hunger games at its finest. Even just staying here for much longer was a bad idea. “We didn’t even gather that much food.” And this time it was fully on Fingon for losing the food net. He flopped onto the river bank and sighed.

After drinking some more water and capping off their water supplies, they ate some of the plants Maedhros foraged to tide off the wave of exhaustion-hunger. Maedhros had pointed out bushes of berries and leaves during their earlier hike, and those filled their pockets, along with the remnants of smoked fish. Fingon was somewhat disgruntled to find a few of his pockets had crushed the berries into a sort of jam, but at least it was sweet and tasty, and would fill him well.

At dusk they moved again. Their enemies wouldn’t pause their killings to throw them a celebratory feast, and they had lingered long enough as it was. 

It was terribly unfair. Fingon told Maedhros as much as they trudged along the riverside. Complaining was useful, because it kept both of them from focusing on how their bones trembled and their jackets were full of burnt rock-holes, clinging unpleasantly on their burnt skin.

With each hour, the air grew colder and sharper. It hurt Fingon’s nose to breathe, sending him into hacking coughs every few steps.

If a cold managed to kill him after escaping a dragon, he would sue. He’d come back as a ghost and haunt _everyone_.

“Your priorities worry me,” Maedhros said.

“I’m just saying, my family would definitely throw a feast in my honor if I met a dragon and lived, and the Capitol should do _at least_ as much because I’m pretty sure that arrow hit it. Even you must admit that was epic.”

“Maybe they are and we just don’t know it.”

Fingon sniffed expressively. “If they are we should receive some spoils of war, you know. Be guests of honor and all that. Do you see a scrumptious feast anywhere?” He gestured at their surroundings. “Barren. I’ve seen more festive funerals.”

“Tragic,” said Maedhros, as dry as the burning forest behind them. “Your suffering is great indeed.”

“I’m glad you see things from my perspective,” Fingon said gravely. 

“Well,” said Maedhros, a lilt to his voice that Fingon, having three younger siblings and more cousins than that, knew would result in teasing. “A bit higher up than that, perhaps.”

Fingon stopped walking. Maedhros paused two steps ahead and looked back over his shoulder. His lips were curved upwards in a soft bow, and his eyes glittered with mirth.

“You aren’t so useful I can’t strangle you,” Fingon said conversationally. 

The teasing curve rose into a full smile, and his eyes squinted fox-like. Maedhros had fine features and hair as red as blood, and of course all the newscasters commented on his beauty. But it was always when he smiled that Fingon stopped to consider that his companion was quite comely indeed.

Then Maedhros said, “Can you even reach that high?” and Fingon renounced his contemplation to mimic punching Maedhros on the back of the head. 

Maedhros ducked away with a hushed laugh. Both his hands came up to cover his mouth. But his shoulders shook, wet hair moving in ruby-red trails upon his back, and Fingon stared until Maedhros wiped tears of joy from the corner of his eyes.

His cheeks warm, he looked away and resumed walking. They kept close to the river, then hauled themselves up into the first sturdy trees they found. Fingon’s hands slipped from their trembling a few times. It turned out that constantly running for your life was kind of exhausting. 

This time Maedhros was in the branch to his right, on the same trunk. Whatever he had done to his shoulder, it was bad enough he accepted Fingon’s aid in climbing up the tree. At the end, his face was still too pale, and his breaths still too shallow to be anything good. Fingon didn’t comment on it this time, just helped him set up wordlessly in his blanket and rope.

Because Fingon was not in constant, stabbing pain (his presented itself in a million aching pinpricks, and in a cough that was becoming annoyingly chronic) it was he who noticed the white parachutes descended from the sky. It was a trio of them, and Fingon gaped to see them descend gently on the thick leaves beside them.

Parachutes with sponsor gifts were incredibly expensive. It was what Fingon had been hoping for all along, with his efforts to score well and working the cameras every chance he got. Sponsor gifts would keep him alive, money funneled through his mentors into gifts of their choice to aid him. It could be anything. And three at once? He couldn't think of the last time it happened. It must have cost a small fortune. His heart beat his chest with excitement, but he couldn't just reach for them. The gifts might not even be for him, much as that made his mouth taste like ash with disappintment.

He and Maedhros shared a look. It wasn’t like the parachutes came with names. “Let’s check and see,” said Maedhros. The parachutes were holding three large bowls that snapped open to reveal warm, delicious food.

Fingon may have actually moaned. 

Two were bowls of warm stew, perfect for a cold night as this was shaping up to be. The last was, amusingly enough, a platter of sushi large enough for two.

Two bowls, such a big platter...

It was clear enough that this feast was meant to be shared. Fingon wondered if Uinen and Throndor had teamed up with the mentors of District 1 to make it happen. If not, whoever bore the brunt of this cost was kind indeed to have spread it out for both of them.

“Thank you for the food!” Fingon said as loud as he dared, smiling for any cameras that captured it. “And for helping me enlighten this fool to the wonders of sushi!” Hopefully that would earn him some laughs. Maedhros, at the least, huffed with amusement.

They drank the warm soup first gratefully. It chased the chill from Fingon’s bones and had him sighing in appreciation at every sip.

They did not finish it all, of course. Food had to be preserved, and so into their jackets the small bowls went. Fingon hoped the clasps would prevent leaking. The sushi they barely touched, though Fingon cajoled Maedhros into trying one for the kind sponsors and viewers.

“Well?” prompted Fingon. 

Maedhros swallowed. “It’s very good. It’s just....”

“Hmm?” 

Maedhros’ face scrunched. “I can't stop thinking that it's raw fish!”

Fingon laughed.

The warm stew chased away the tension in his limbs, leaving him more relaxed and content than he had been since the games started. A nearly full stomach was never to be dismissed ever again. Even Maedhros seemed more relaxed. His resting face nearly held a smile as he looked at Fingon. 

More telling than anything was Maedhros pressing the strange sunglasses to his hands as darkness surrounded them. When Fingon slid them on, he discovered their true secret. Night vision. The world around him was as clear as daylight. His fingers brushed against his bow, but if anyone was nearby, they hid well.

When the anthem broke through the night, it confirmed there were no deaths. 

It wasn’t a very good thing for Fingon, from a winning point of view. That meant all his remaining fourteen competitors were still threats. Worse still, they had quite literally jumped off the high ground they had previously reached. 

But personally, Fingon couldn’t help but hide the smirk when he thought of the gamemakers. What expressions must they be making? They had set part of the forest on fire to lure competitors together and had even brought in a _dragon_ the very next day. Still, no deaths.

Fingon chuckled and leaned back into the trunk. His ears picked up on Maedhros, rustling. “What’s funny now? Still happy to be alive?”

“Always,” Fingon promised. “It’s just that aside from all the fire, and running, and the dragon, it’s almost like a camping trip.” Especially so now that they had decent food.

The following silence was extraordinarily incredulous. Fingon barely had to imagine Maedhros pursed lips: he could _feel_ the expression. “I don’t even want to know what camping trips you’ve been on,” Maedhros finally said. 

Fingon grinned. His gaze lifted upwards, to the appearing stars in the fading light.

Even knowing they must be fake, his eyes traced the familiar constellations. Was his family looking at the same stars even now? “My family would go out by the beach, or in the forest bordering the city. We’d just sit there watching the stars for hours, singing and listening to the ocean waves.”

“That sounds rather different to the games.”

“Maybe,” Fingon conceded. “The trees are different. There’s no sea breeze, and it’s far colder. But I’m in good company and watching the stars. If we were singing, it would be all right.”

The wind rustled the tree leaves in a hushed, almost gentle motion. Maedhros turned on his side. His hair looked brown in the dim light. “Then sing.”

“And get the attention of every tribute in the Arena?” Fingon laughed rather incredulously. “And here I thought our goal was survival.”

Maedhros shrugged. “You have a bow and arrows, I have a knife. And frankly, people aren't as frightening after seeing a dragon.” He too, now looked up at the stars twinkling above. His eyes seemed lit with inner fire. With starlight kissing his fine features, he looked fey and unnatural; as though Fingon had stepped into a folk tale and met a siren who would steal his life and heart if he misstepped.

_Let them come,_ Maedhros did not say. Fingon heard it clearly regardless. His fingers scratched at the tree bark behind him, brushing against his quiver. 

If this was a camping trip, it was the bitterest, most soul-crushing trip he had ever been on. The shadows grew ever deeper, and the silence more ominous. At once, the breeze no longer seemed like a gentle caress but frigid claws raking into his skin, and the rustling of leaves like the dragon’s hateful laughter as he toyed with his prey. Not even the warmth in his belly could disguise the truth of their circumstances. 

Anger caught fire in Fingon’s soul, as swift as a burning forest and brilliant as the stars. Against all sense, he opened his mouth and sang.

It was not gentle hums that he had considered, nor the cheerful camp-songs of his family, but a bright song of defiance from the old days of the great war. He did not whisper for survival, nor yell out his anger for all to hear. He merely sang.

Maedhros stiffened under his blanket as he heard it, eyes wide as he stared at him, but did not make a sound. When the melody ended, Maedhros shuddered, as though the song had captured him in a trance and he was only just waking. 

Harsh breathing filled the clearing instead of words. Fingon was shocked to realize it was his own, and the effort the song had taken to sing. He had not held back at all, had he? His eyes scanned the forest below for any movement. 

Nothing.

He let out a sigh of pure relief. 

Then, breaking the barrier of silence came Fingon’s own voice. His fingers jerked to his lips, which were only opened in a shocked little bow, and his eyes darted around the clearing. The song of defiance surrounded them from every direction, and it was Fingon’s voice singing it--but he was not making a sound!

Suddenly, Maedhros laughed. “Mockingjays! I didn’t think they’d be awake,” he exclaimed, and sat with some effort. He smiled at Fingon, who felt his mouth dry at the unstinted joy and admiration. “They like your voice!” 

“Do they?” said Fingon distantly. His heart had skipped so many beats in that one moment, he was almost worried it would give out.

Maedhros nodded and leaned against the trunk in an almost graceful sprawl. “They never repeat _my_ singing--I have no talent for it. But _your_ voice is something special.”

Fingon was grateful it was he with the night-vision glasses and not Maedhros, and that he was in shadow besides. His cheeks burned. “Maybe you should sing something now.”

“Didn’t I just tell you I can’t sing?”

A smile tugged up Fingon’s lips. “No, you said you had no talent for it, not that you can’t sing.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“Nope,” Fingon sing-sang. Now he was the one grinning fey-like, the strange ambiance of the night lighting a fire in him he didn’t know existed. As if this moment hanging in the branches, with only the starlight and songbirds as witnesses would extend into eternity, and their voices would forever echo in the night.

“Very well!” Maedhros conceded. “But don’t be disappointed when the Mockingjays keep singing your song and not mine.” His head tilted. Then, as if to dispute his own words, he waited until Fingon’s song reached its chorus, and joined in with the singing birds.

His voice was deeper than Fingon’s and raspier too. It was true he was no great talent, but he followed the melody well and kept the tune, and Fingon closed his eyes and hummed along, then joined him properly in song.

They sang together, trading verses and lyrics and songs with each other, and laughing as the Mockingjays copied them until the stars changed and the Moon hid behind the horizon.

Perhaps, together, everything would be all right after all.

  
  
  
  


\--

  
  
  
  
  
  


_In his room, laying on the bed, Maglor picked through Maitimo’s jewelry box with idle curiosity. “Well, as long as you survive next year’s Reaping, your entire life will be set.” The corners of his mouth lifted mockingly as he slid a circlet onto Maitimo’s head. “May the odds be ever in your favor, brother.”_

_Maedhros had not yet learned to be afraid. He laughed. “Brother, the odds are_ always _in our favor.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you ever realize you need to add backstory to make a story work because readers dont live in your brain and end up adding 10 more pages to an already long fic?
> 
> yeah thats this chapter im sorry if the tone is all over the place as a result ^-^''' i'll go through it and edit it later


	6. Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is, overall, i think the most self indulgent, and also features several of the tags kek

When dawn came Fingon woke abruptly again, his nose freezing. Sleep time had been short last night, but the memory of songs kept the smile on his face as he rubbed sleep from his eyes and warmth into his limbs.

Then he realized it’s not a memory he’s hearing, but an actual song. 

“They’re still at it?” he asked, baffled, squinting at the canopy surrounding them. The clouds were still pink and orange from the waking sun, but it was light enough that Fingon could see the mockingjays hidden in the leaves. 

Almost in answer, they trilled a different song at him. His own voice rang out, melodious and strong, and echoed throughout the forest.

“They never stopped.” It was Maedhros’ turn to take the last watch, and so he was already awake. Ever fastidious, he erased traces of them from the small tree-knook as well as he could, and from the clearing below as well. He smiled at Fingon. “I told you they liked your voice.”

Fingon watched him putter about, scattering fallen leaves like the training camp instructors told him to aid him. A warmth burned in his chest, fanning itself to greater height with each breath that crossed his lips. “You also said you couldn’t sing, so I’m not sure I trust your song-knowledge.” 

“You really won’t leave that!” Maedhros laughed. “If you had grown with a brother like mine, you would also have different standards of singing.” His smile froze and slowly dropped. He blinked rapidly, then composed his expression and forced himself back to a facsimile of cheer. “But you’re so good it might not have made a difference.”

A dangerous part of Fingon wanted to smooth the unhappy little droop of his mouth back into a smile. He forced himself to not look at Maedhros at all as he helped organize the clearing. “He’s a good singer, then?”

For a moment, it seemed as though Fingon misstepped. Then, Maedhros said, “The best.” His voice held only the slightest wobble, noticeable only because Fingon’s every sense was keed into his reactions.

“I wish I could hear him,” said Fingon, truthfully. He wished for a lot of things, not the least that these horrible games had not seen fit to weigh his life against Maedhros--his enemy, his ally. A friend, he thinks, if fate had been kinder.

Maedhros made a choked little sound, as though he strangled a sob. When Fingon looked at him, his eyes were very bright. “So do I.” 

There wasn’t anything Fingon could say after that. His own throat felt clogged if he thought too long of his siblings. What were they doing? Still sleeping in? Or were they watching him even now, forced to spectate his struggle yet helpless to do anything?

It was a more somber pair that marched from the clearing. Above them, the trees still sang songs of defiance. Fingon was suddenly pleased he held the tune so well last night. He hadn’t realized even the daytime would hear his songs.

He hummed as he walked, spirits slowly buoyed by the words of hope in trying times. These must be the same words the ancient soldiers and combatants heard, as they rode against Angband in battle. Their story did not end in great victory, only tears. But Fingon did not come to the hunger games expecting a happy ending.

“Somehow, it’s ironic that’s the song they keep singing. Normally they tire of songs quicker.” Maedhros had been silent beside him, each long step measured to the same beat Fingon walked on. Now he grinned mischievously at Fingon, who felt a burst of delight at the reemergence of this side of Maedhros. “Think we’ll get in trouble for it?”

  
  
  


\--

  
  
  


They did not get in trouble for it. At least, no trouble Fingon could note. The day was the most peaceful they’ve had yet. They still had the remnants of soup and sushi to eat, and dug some roots at Maedhros’ command. Best of all, they found entire  _ bushes  _ of wild berries Maedhros glowered at until he pronounced them edible. They gorged themselves on the berries until their lips were stained blue.

They lay afterwards in the grass and talked, as though they truly  _ were  _ on a camping trip and not being hunted down as they speak. Their talk was interpierced by the occasional song from the mockingjays, who were  _ still  _ echoing Fingon and Maedhros from the night before.

“How queer,” Fingon laughed. “You’d think they’ve never heard those songs before.”

“It’s not about hearing the song before. If they like your voice, they’ll repeat your songs.” Maedhros tilted his head in thought and gave the treetops a pensive look. “Though it's likely true that they haven’t heard them before.”

“No?” Fingon exclaimed, “But they’re hardly unpopular songs.”

“Well, that depends on where you’re singing.” Maedhros’ eyes twinkled. “I can’t imagine them being very popular in Lord Melkor’s home.”

A snort escaped Fingon before he could stop it. “Now that you mention it, neither can I.” He absently curled a braid around his fingers. “What do you think he  _ does  _ listen to?”

Maedhros took his joke question seriously. His nose, Fingon noted, always scrunched a bit when he thought hard and was relaxed enough. “There was a popular orchestral rock band in the Capitol recently. It had a lot of big organ pipes and drums. The kind of music that rattled your bones.”

“Huh.” Fingon tried to picture it. He wasn’t sure if the dark, brooding, and intensely discomforting man was somehow more terrifying or made silly by playing such ominous music. “No offense to the good lord, but I like my song better.”

Maedhros laughed. “You would. You’re very odd, you know?”

“I am?” asked Fingon, too curious to take offense. “How so?”

Again, that cute little nose scrunch. “Well, there’s the braids.” 

Fingon clutched them reflexively. “What about them?!”

It didn’t take knowing him to pick up the note of teasing in Maedhros’ voice. “I just can’t think of anyone else who’d wear gold ribbons to the hunger games. They’re rather noticeable.”

“I’ll have you know they’re very practical,” said Fingon with exaggerated dignity. “And they look good too.”

Maedhros didn’t dispute him, but did smile and lean back onto his forearms. “Yes, but then, what about your survival skills?”

“Oh, there was more?” Fingon shook his head in mock dismay, then wiggled his eyebrows as if to say ‘well, go on.’

“I just can’t think of anyone else who’d judge camping locations on how nice they look. Not in the hunger games, at least.”

“Being like everyone else sounds dreadfully boring,” countered Fingon. “Can’t imagine why anyone would do it.”

Maedhros muffled a laugh into his shoulder. 

“Was that all?” Fingon leaned forward expectantly. “Or are we done cataloguing the ways I’m weird, and can move onto the ways you’re actually the strange one?”

“ _ I’m _ the strange one?” Maedhros’s eyes were very bright as he smiled. “You’re the one who sang a song of the Great War in the middle of the hunger games!”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Fingon’s cheeks hurt from smiling. “It’s a song of hope, and valour, and fighting against all odds.”

“Yet losing against those odds,” Maedhros shook his head. “You do remember that, don’t you?”

Fingon gave an exaggerated once over to the clearing and gestured broadly. “In this Arena? How could I? And what do you even have against the song, there’s no mention of losing at all.”

“It just seems odd. When I think of the time of the Great War, all I can remember is that saying of how it ended in unnumbered tears.” He shook his head. “But you sing as though it didn’t end with a miserable defeat.”

“Should I sing songs of lament, then?” asked Fingon archly. “And lay down and give up, as though all hope was lost?”

Maedhros glanced at him. “Some would say it has been lost since the games began.”

Fingon huffed. “Well, I am not ‘some people’. And I say that all has not been lost.” He flopped down onto his back, and frowned at the sky. His brows furrowed as he gathered his thoughts. 

It’s true that there was nothing hopeful about his circumstances. Present company aside, the Hunger Games was nothing but cruel yearly reminder of how Angband crushed the rest of Beleriand underfoot during the Great War. Even if Fingon did survive, he had no illusions that he’d live the rest of his life happily or freely. Too many Champions had been driven to suicide for any illusions on the joy of his fate. 

Perhaps all  _ had  _ been lost then. Maybe it all ended in tragedy long ago, and there was nothing they can do but lament each year, as pigs for slaughter and entertainment of a shallow few who’ve known no struggle nor pain.

“But I’d rather think that the story has not ended. That we’re in the middle of it, not the end. And someday, people will think of this time and tell of how dark the night seemed, and how all hope seemed for naught.” He blinked, and turned his head towards Maedhros, and smiled. “But it was not. It was just clouds blocking the moon, and when day came the sun chased the shadows away.”

“Someday,” he told Maedhros, who looked at him with wide gray eyes. “They might sing of this moment. They might praise us and say, ‘see, they did not lose hope, so we shouldn’t either!’” Fingon grinned wryly. “Or perhaps you and I are merely footnotes in the story, but a hopeful footnote is best, I should think, even if the story has a tragic end.” 

Maedhros was still staring at him. His mouth was ever so slightly open, and his expression was almost like it had been the night before. Electricity raced through Fingon. “Too much?”

“No,” Maedhros blinked. “I’m just very glad I met you.”

Fingon hummed encouragingly. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Maedhros flopped back onto his own back. “I can’t say I like the circumstances, but meeting you makes these games worth something.”

“That’s high praise.”

“It’s the truth.”

Well then. “I’m also glad to have met you,” Fingon admitted. “Though I hate that it had to be here. You and I--” he swallowed. “We make a good team.”

One of Maedhros’ eyes opened and looked at him. “We do.”

“We’d make good friends,” Fingon said tentatively.

The other eye opened. A pause. “...Yes.”

Huh, he had almost expected Maedhros to deny it. Fingon was startled by the wave of fondness he felt. He took a steadying breath. “How wretched that the only reason we met is because they gave us weapons and told us to kill each other.”

Maedhros stared at the sky, his arms behind his head. “Maybe we never would have met otherwise.”

Fingon wrinkled his nose and mimicked his pose. Their elbows just barely didn’t touch. “I almost hate that more,” he commented. “I’d rather think we were always destined to meet, and it’s just bad luck it happened like this.”

He could hear the smile in Maedhros’ voice when he said, “More of that hope of yours?”

“Yes,” Fingon said. The word tasted like ash in his mouth. “It’s the only thing we really have.”

  
  
  
  


\--

  
  
  
  


It was just as they readied to move that the gift arrived. It floated down in a little white parachute and landed right at their feet. Maedhros and Fingon shared a look, then stared at it with equal surprise. Another, so soon? They must have truly gained someone’s favor. Multiple someones, at that!

“Who’s this one for?” Fingon asked. Obviously, no one answered. The birds still chirped in the trees (thankfully having gotten bored of Fingon’s melodies. There’s only so much of his own voice even he can take). The package was equally silent. It was too small to be a food platter.

“Maybe if we open it we can see,” Maedhros suggested once again, so they did. Inside was a small jar, easily fitting in the palm of Fingon’s hand. It had no marks, so they opened that as well. The cream inside was a light yellow color. When Fingon poked a finger into it, all the skin in his body prickled. It was freezing, colder than even the night air. Additionally, his fingertip went all but numb. Then, it suddenly heated for no reason Fingon could discern.

He catalogued these findings to Maedhros as he wondered what the cream could be for. They had both escaped the dragon with only minor burns that, at worst, ripped off a layer or three of skin and singed the upper layer of their jackets. A cream wouldn’t do much good to the lung damage from smoke inhalation. Fingon had escaped the  _ previous  _ fire with only parts of his hair fried. The worst injury between the two of them was Maedhros’ shoulder. The next was Fingon’s ribs, which now pulled painfully with every movement he made. He hoped they weren’t cracked. 

His rumination was broken when Maedhros snapped the fingers of his left hand. “It’s dragon balm!”

Fingon opened his mouth, then closed it. Then: “What now balm?”

The flush of triumph was still on Maedhros’ face as he colored slightly. “Dragon balm-- it’s a colloquial name for a muscle relaxant. Or bruise cream. Or anti-swelling cream? I’m not actually certain what it is. My family uses it for everything from soothing tired muscles to reducing swelling on broken bones.” He paused. “I think someone must have a sense of humor.”

Fingon agreed. Of all the things they named this cream, why  _ dragon balm _ ? Having met a dragon personally, he could say with uttermost confidence that “relaxation”s antonym in the dictionary was that big, scaled beast. 

Then, almost simultaneously, the last sentences of Maedhros’ explanation filtered through their brains, and they both looked at Maedhros’ right shoulder. 

“I guess it’s for you,” Fingon said. He tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice, but judging by Maedhros’ expression wasn’t entirely successful.

“Maybe,” Maedhros said with shockingly little enthusiasm. Fingon wanted to shake him. Evidence of dedicated sponsors greatly improved your chances of living. Show some gratitude for the cameras! “How’s those ribs of yours?”

“Not as bad as that shoulder.”

“There’s enough cream to share,” Maedhros said decisively. 

“It’s your gift.” Fingon huffed with frustration. The disregard for such a useful (even life saving!) part of the hunger games completely caught him off guard. Did Maedhros not care that his sponsors might be insulted? He didn’t even look happy! 

Was he just trying to be fair and charitable? Somehow, Fingon doubted it. Though sharing the cream was, in of itself, an act of kindness and solidarity, there was a suspicious set to Maedhros face. He was… wary, almost.

Fingon reflexively looked around, but the clearing was still empty except for the two of them. 

He then squinted down at the dragon balm, sitting innocuous in the palm of his hand. Was it perhaps actually some dangerous substance? Did he mean to use it to take Fingon out of the games?

But if so, wouldn’t it have been simpler to just let the dragon trample him? No one could even object to that--allies aside, saving one’s own life always took precedence in the hunger games. In fact, it was more morally reprehensible to… what? Poison Fingon using a badly named body balm?

Well, alright, it wasn’t unacceptable and some might praise his wiles. But except for where he was reticent, Maedhros had proven unerringly blunt. 

“You first,” Fingon said, keeping his thoughts hidden away. As much as the thought of being betrayed hurt him, he wasn't going to just give up his chances to win for the sake of a friendship-that-could-never-be.

To his credit, Maedhros accepted this without arguing. They both paused when it realized it would involve Maedhros removing his upper layers. Then Maedhros set his jaw and fumbled at his clothing. He allowed Fingon to help him pull the shirt off. 

The shoulder looked even worse fully uncovered. All that running and tree climbing and body-slamming couldn’t have been good for it. His stomach turned at the sight of the swollen flesh, made all the more jarring by the nearly-perfect shoulder on the left.

Time to focus on something else.

Maedhros had freckles running down his chest. They shone in the sunlight, faint little dots like brown stars on his cheeks. They extended over his shoulders and went down until nearly his navel. 

When Maedhros rubbed the cream into his shoulder he hissed. Then the bruise cream must have kicked in, and he sighed. Some of the pinched, tense lines around his eyes eased. He covered all the front in a thin layer of the cream, but hesitated when reaching for his back. A pinched look of pain crossed his face.

“I’ll do it.” Fingon’s mouth moved on its own. His bow rested in his lap, primed to shoot. They had moved a bit away from the clearing but were lingering longer than they planned to in this area. Each moment increased the danger exponentially. 

When Maedhros looked at him silently from underneath his bangs, Fingon smiled wryly and lifted the bow. “I promise not to shoot you in the back.”

It was a poor one as far as jokes went, but Maedhros snorted--nothing more than a tiny little huff of breath, but clearly a laugh. Wordlessly, he sat half-facing away from Fingon and moved his braided red hair over his left shoulder.

Fingon was never entirely certain if Maedhros trusted him. He wasn’t entirely certain if he trusted Maedhros either. His every sense was heightened as he placed the bow to the side. Their fingers brushed as Maedhros passed him the dragon balm. Their eyes met.

Then Maedhros turned his head forward, leaving his back entirely exposed. Fingon took a steadying breath, but his hands still trembled as they dipped into the tiger balm. He arrested their movement as best as they could, but nothing could stop his swallow when Maedhros shivered under his touch.

_ I could kill you now,  _ Fingon thought.  _ It wouldn’t even be hard. _

When the shoulder was fully coated in cream, Fingon’s hand absently trailed down the knobs of Maedhros’ spine. He counted the freckles until they disappeared into his pants, and then slowly removed his hand.

His fingertips felt like they simultaneously burned and froze. Every nerve in his body was focused on the points that had been in contact with Maedhros’ back. 

“Done,” Fingon whispered. Maedhros’ back had been utterly still under his touch, even as his finger’s trailed. Now, he shuddered. The braid slipped from its place and Maedhros turned his head. He was just opening his lips when a cannonball pierced through the silence like an arrow.

Instantly, both of them jumped and readied their weapons. The birds cawed uneasily, then went silent. One trilled a long, high warning note. A few seconds later the hovercraft appeared over the sky and sped towards the east. 

Slowly, the bird song returned. 

Whatever tenderness had lingered vanished. Maedhros pulled on his shirt and jacket with grim efficiency as Fingon stood guard. “We’ve been here too long,” Maedhros said.

“The day is getting dark,” Fingon observed. They really had lingered too long. Anyone could be on their trail by now. 

Maedhros hoisted the backpack over his shoulder, then glanced down at Fingon’s torso. “Your ribs?”

“Can wait,” said Fingon firmly. 

They marched in the opposite direction the hovercraft flew in with a grim almost-desperation. It had been about time for another death to occur. Even with all the excitement of the past two days, too long without any death was a bad look. Fingon wondered if any of the other tributes had had confrontations with one another, and side-stepped death as Fingon had.

Well, if they had, that was over now.

11 down. Half remained.

They only paused when Fingon spotted a flock of large, juicy birds on a branch, and brought three down before they realized what happened. With the night chill rapidly descending on them, the meat would hold until it could be cooked.

They finally hauled themselves up a large pine. Fingon noted with distant pleasure that Maedhros looked less pale at the end of it, and climbed up with more ease. Once settled in they shared the last of the sushi and soup, but yesterday’s delicacy was unsatisfying and bland now.

Fingon put on the night vision goggles and scanned the earth, his bow primed to fire. The air continued to chill, and by the time the anthem played, his breath was misting in front of him. His lungs burned with each breath. He could barely feel his nose.

The anthem proved a brief distraction. The dead was the boy from District 3. Fingon scanned his projected, holographic face, but no memory of him returned. He had left absolutely no impression upon him. 

Now he never would.

When the anthem ended the air resumed stabbing into Fingon’s skin. Fingon slid the arrow back in the quiver lest it fall to the ground from his trembling. His bow was slung over his back, and he rubbed warmth into his fingers, puffing air at them. But even that felt cold. 

His teeth clattered, loud enough each  _ clack  _ rang in his ears like a canon. He tried to stop the motion, but could do nothing but clasp a hand over his mouth and breathe.

He suddenly realized with a sickening shudder that he might actually freeze to death.

District 4 was temperate by nature. He had passed the threshold of “coldest he’d ever been” on that first night. But the nights kept getting colder and deadlier. If this went on, he’d have to build a fire or risk losing his limbs.

Not for the first time, he envied the bedroll Maedhros found. 

“Fingon?” Maedhros asked. He was perched on the opposite side of the trunk this time, and his voice was muffled from whispering and the distance. 

Again, Fingon tried fruitlessly to calm the clattering. “Y-yeah?”

“Are you alright? I can hear you--” Maedros paused, searching for the right word. “Your teeth are clattering loud enough I can hear.” 

That startled a bitter laugh out of Fingon. “It’s a b-bit cold.”

More rustling reached Fingon’s ears. Then a harsh inhale, and a muffled curse. “A ‘bit’ cold you say.”

Fingon laughed bitterly again and shivered as he did and the biting wind froze his teeth. 

“Fingon?” Maedhros called again, this time more purposeful. 

“Y-Yes?”

“Can you pass me the night vision glasses?”

The words slowly filtered through Fingon’s frozen mind. He forced his limbs to move and leaned around the trunk as much as he could. Maedhros was now on a closer branch, and extending his trembling arm.

It was his left, so the right must be bracing him.

Fingon hesitated only for a moment, then took off the frames and moved them to where he remembered Maedhros’ palm being. 

He knew he had aimed correctly when Maedhros hissed from the chill of the frame, and their weight disappeared from his palm. “Stay there,” Maedhros ordered. Fingon was now blind, only able to see blurry shapes amidst the shadows of the tree where faint light touched them. His hand grasped at air, still obediently held out.

It was a cloudy night. That must be why the air felt exponentially colder. 

Either that or the gamemakers truly planned to freeze them all.

A weight reappeared in Fingon’s palm. He wrapped his fingers around the glasses by reflex, then slowly put them back on.

“See that branch down there?” Maedhros said. “The big one, around two meters down?”

Fingon followed his finger down to the thicker branches below. There was indeed a large branch there, almost perpendicular to their positions. He breathed feeling the frozen air bite his teeth, “Ye-Yeah.”

“Tell me if I’m aiming correctly,” Maedhros said. For no reason Fingon could comprehend, Maedhros then shimmied himself off the branch he was in, and dropped down to the large one. With his height, he only had to fall an inch or so. 

He steadied himself and wrapped himself in with rope, sliding into the bedroll. Then squinted up at Fingon, trying to find him amidst the shadows. Maedhros patted the side of the branch beside him. “Come down?”

Fingon remained still as a statue, not entirely from the freezing wind. His mouth had slackened as he looked down at Maedhros. His fair features looked up patiently, waiting for Fingon to join him. 

Still, Fingon hesitated. 

He thought of arrows that never slid into hearts, and the glasses on his face. The food that had warmed his stomach; the dragon fire that never reached him. His fingertips burned with remembered warmth. With careful movements, he dropped down besides Maedhros. The branch shook but held.

In the darkness, only Fingon saw Maedhros smile at him, a tiny little thing that pushed up his eyes. Then glorious warmth wrapped around him, and the relieved sigh burst through his lips before he could stop it.

He wiggled closer and tucked the bedroll around him, such that no chill entered this cocoon of salvation. He was so cold that Maedhros’ left side, pressed to his right, burned like fire. It was a comforting heat instead of the dreadful infiernos of dragons.

They lay shoulder to shoulder on the branch, and the nearly-shared air mingled and remained, charged with electricity.

“You’re kind of insane,” Fingon whispered into the darkness.

“The bedroll is big enough for two.”

“Lucky me,” Fingon chuckled. His eyes burned with gratefulness, stinging into tears. He blinked them away. He was shorter than Maedhros, so their hands did not align. Experimentally, his frigid fingers drifted close enough to catch on the sleeve of Maedhros’ jacket. The only reaction Maedros had was to turn his head so he was facing Fingon. 

Could he see Fingon with the same clarity Fingon watched him? He doubted it. This close and with the glasses, Fingon could count the eyelashes brushing against his cheeks. “Thank you,” Fingon murmured.

Maedhros’ eyes fluttered shut, and he turned his face to the clouds again. “We may not be friends, but I don’t think allies let each other freeze to death either.”

Fingon was too tired to laugh. His smile was small, though no less real for it. “Indeed!” he whispered, still hushed in respect for the silence of the night. His fingers clutched once more at Maedhros’ sleeve, and then he pressed closer still, until there was no space where one body began and the other ended. His own eyes closed, and for the first time in days, he fell into a deep, dreamless, warm sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so the last two weeks broke my posting streak kek. but this is a fave chapter of mine, featuring such highlights as "fingon accidentally realizes medicine application can bring the sexy thoughts out" and "there was only one bedroll". also has my one (1) attempt to mimic heroic speeches. writing them is very hard and i was just basically stealing established tolkien speeches lmao
> 
> next chapter brings the first murder interlude! hope you enjoyed~


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